


Chaos, Yet Harmony

by bioticbootyshaker



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 04:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker
Summary: After destroying the Death Star and striking a serious blow against Darth Vader and his dark master, Luke Skywalker looks to further his training as a Jedi. There's only one problem: Master Yoda is on the isolated planet of Dagobah, and no one in the Rebel Alliance is too keen in sending their best -- and really, only -- chance against Darth Vader into the fetid swamps to find him.Mon Mothma reaches out to an old acquaintance, living in self-imposed exile on the pirate haven Rishi.Galen Marek has heard a lot of outlandish ideas in his day, but there's no way that Luke Skywalker can possibly be the one to defeat Darth Vader and return peace to the galaxy.Except Luke Skywalker isn't, Galen learns, quite what he appears.





	1. The Apprentice

_Tatooine, 2ABY_

Luke remembered standing on the dunes, looking at the suns as they set, and feeling the immensity of his grief settle into his skin and bones. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru had died there, on the only home they had ever known, the only home _he_ had ever known, and the crushing weight of their loss had driven him to the stars. Now, more than two years later, he carried the hurt and the grief with him even still. His fingers curled over the hilt of the lightsaber at his hip, and it was strange that he could feel so important and still so small, and lost, and _scared_. 

He supposed even great and mighty Jedi could get scared. Obi-Wan hadn’t exactly had enough time to teach him all of the subtleties and nuances of the Order before he’d died. It was just another death Luke bore on his heart like a deep scar, and another death that he carried guilt over. If he’d been better, stronger, quicker---

_Past is past, kid_ , Luke could hear Han telling him. _You either bury it or let it bury you._

There was no doubt he was right, but still, Luke looked out over the sand as the suns sank deeper in the sky and painted everything purple-red, and he thought of all the things he might have changed, the people he could have saved, the mistakes he could have never made. Maybe it didn’t do him any good to dwell on them, but he was young enough to ignore good advice when it was offered. 

A hand touched his shoulder, and he looked to find Leia standing beside him. Her hair was pulled back simply from her face, pinned up and pretty, and he remembered the stories of his youth of beings called angels that walked on the earth and looked to be made of light; that was what Leia was, even when she fumed and snapped and called them brainless space jockeys. He loved her, he supposed, in some young and foolish surge of... _something_. Luke couldn’t put a name to it, the same way he couldn’t put a name to the feeling that tightened his chest when Han stepped up beside him and clapped his hand on his back. 

“You just gonna stand here all day?” Han asked. “I hate to rush... whatever the hell this is, but it’s gonna be getting pretty cold soon, and this sand gets everywhere.” 

Leia rolled her eyes. “He’s been complaining about sand for _two hours_ now---”

“Yeah, well, _princess_ , you’re not the one that has to get down in the machinery and scrub the shit out of every nook and cranny---”

Luke laughed, the sound echoing across the desert sand, bouncing back loud enough to make little shivers work up his spine. Before, he might have been terrified, standing on the dunes so late in the evening, making so much noise -- it seemed a recipe for disaster, summoning some creature or Sand Person -- but with his hand curled on his lightsaber, and Leia and Han beside him, he wasn’t afraid. 

“Laugh it up, kid,” Han said. “Won’t be funny when we’re stranded on this sandtrap because you wanted to take in the scenery.”

He could feel the look Leia shot Han, her anger rolling off of her in palpable waves; but Luke wasn’t angry, or even hurt. Han had never had to think about anyone but himself his whole life, why would Luke expect him to remember that this sandtrap had been his home, and the place where he’d lost his aunt and uncle? All Han would remember was the row he’d had in the cantina at Mos Eisley, and how he’d been running back then, and was running still. Even though he and Luke were heroes now, or at least had had medals draped over their necks and been _told_ they were, he wasn’t safe. 

None of them were safe. 

Sometimes, when he was alone, and there was no noise but the sound of his own breath, Luke could almost feel the monster the Empire called Darth Vader reaching across the void for him. It was the coldest, darkest feeling he’d ever known, lying there and feeling as though chilly, sharp tendrils were drawing up around and squeezing his heart. 

And he knew that one day, he would have to face him. He was the last Jedi, the last line of defense between the Empire and the Rebellion, the last hope for bringing balance to the Force. But he was aimless, shiftless, like a rudderless ship on the ocean, and he had no clue what he was doing, let alone how to actually go about _doing_ it.

That was why he’d returned to Tatooine. He’d hoped that by coming, he could put everything that had led him to that moment behind him, and focus himself on what needed to be done. But instead he only felt small and lost, and the curl of his fingers over the hilt of his lightsaber did nothing to center him, or instill him with any strength or courage. It was an ancient weapon for an ancient age, and he was only one boy -- _man_ , he reminded himself -- who had no one left to guide him. 

“Luke?”

He realized, too late, that Han and Leia had been speaking to him, and he flushed. Luckily it was dark enough now that neither of them seemed to notice. 

“Yeah? Sorry.”

“We shouldn’t stay here,” Leia said. “It’s dark, and...”

“Full of sand,” Han interrupted. “Let’s go, kid.”

Better to leave everything behind. The sand and the blowing wind and the memories of who he had once been. There was no room for anything else now.

****

_Rishi, 2ABY_

The hooded figure moved through a bustling marketplace, and despite the growing crowd that filled the boardwalk, people made room for him. Once, he might have smugly smirked at exuding such an intimidating presence, but now, there was only a twinge of sadness, down in his gut. They felt him as a monstrous thing, and they moved aside unconsciously.

He stopped at one of the stalls, his eyes meeting the beady stare of the Rishi merchant, and whatever the merchant saw in his eyes must have terrified him, because he flapped nervously and announced that everything would be free for him. 

Galen Marek had never needed charity.

_That may be true_ , a dark whisper said from the back of his kind. _But you aren't Galen Marek, are you?_

He was so used to the cruel voice that he hardly even flinched from the words as he handed over his credits to the flustered merchant and gathered his things to head for home.

_Home_ was a kind word for the tiny hovel he returned to. There wasn't much more than a thin mattress strewn on the floor, and a small table where he ate his meals. There was a stench in the place that he could never quite get used to; a stench that hung over the whole blasted island.

It stunk of sweat and salt and garbage, and if it hadn't been got the safety and isolation it afforded him, Galen would have left the moment his boots had first hit the planks.

But it was the closest thing he'd ever had to a home of his own, and he took some pride in it, even if it stank and the walls were moldy and mossy, and it never quite stopped being bone-chillingly _cold_.

As he prepared his dinner, the holocom on his table flashed and fizzled with static. 

No one had tried to contact him for _months._

With his stomach roiling uneasily, Galen answered the call.

The caller fizzled into view, and for the first few seconds, the static was so terrible that he couldn't see or hear who was calling him.

But it cleared, and he was looking at the face of Mon Mothma.

A very _nervous_ Mon Mothma.

“Galen,” she said. She would never call him _Starkiller_ , the name Darth Vader had chosen for him. He wasn't sure if it was out of respect for him, or a lack of respect for Vader, that she avoided the moniker. “It's been a while.”

“Yes,” he agreed, stiffly. He didn't like that she was contacting him, out of the blue. He didn't like that she even _knew_ where to find him. What good did isolation do if the whole blasted rebellion knew where he was? “A long while.”

“I hope you've been well,” Mon Mothma said. Her voice was always so crisp and polished, but Galen sensed an urgency just underneath; desperation, maybe. 

He hated small talk, and she was a politician with a politician's penchant for skirting the issue; Galen _liked her_ , but he hated politicians.

“You called for a reason,” he said. “Not to shoot the breeze, I imagine?”

Her feathers were a little ruffled, but the reason he liked her so much was that she shed the political bullshit and got down to business. 

“There's a boy that we think should speak with you,” she said.

He hadn't expected _that._

“I'm flattered that you've gone to the trouble to play matchmaker, Mon Mothma, but I have to say it's a little unusual.”

The connection was still filled with static, but he could see the hint of a smile on her face.

“I always did enjoy your dry wit,” she said. “Obviously that wasn't what I meant.”

“Well, what _did_ you mean?” Galen asked.

“This boy is force-sensitive. He was trained, for a time, by Obi-Wan Kenobi, before his death.”

His _murder_ , Galen wanted to remind her, by the same monster that had killed his progenitor and nearly destroyed him and the woman he loved. Darkly, Galen wished he had killed Vader when he'd had the chance, and the thought made him sick.

He was better than that.

“I'm sensing that this is going somewhere,” Galen said. “But I have no idea where, exactly.”

“This boy---”

“It might be better if you gave _this boy_ a name.”

“Luke,” Mon Mothma said, and the smile was gone from her face and voice. “Luke Skywalker.”

Of course Galen had heard of him. The boy who had destroyed the Death Star and prevented the greatest weapon the Empire had at its disposal from ever being used again. He had felt the destruction of Alderaan, had felt the ripples through the force as they had rolled across the galaxy, and he was glad that this Skywalker had managed to remove the blight of the weapon from the universe.

But he had no idea what any of that had to do with _him_.

“And what do you expect me to do, exactly?” Galen asked. 

“He would benefit from your... experience,” Mon Mothma said, carefully, side-stepping some minefield that Galen couldn’t even begin to guess at. Usually, she was unguarded, open and forthright, but now she seemed reticent. Here she was, asking him to upend his life and his isolation, and she wouldn’t even be entirely truthful with him. “He wishes to act on some foolish vision he claims he’s had, to seek out Master Yoda.”

_Yoda_ , now there was a name he hadn’t heard in many years. 

“I can’t imagine I could teach him more than Master Yoda,” Galen argued.

“I don’t want him gallivanting across the galaxy looking for a _myth_ ,” Mon Mothma said, and her voice vibrated with very clear anger. “I’ve been responsible for enough death, I don’t want to add Skywalker to the list. He needs to remain as close to the Rebellion as he possibly can, but I wouldn’t deny him the opportunity to train and learn.”

“Tano is alive---”

“And _gone_ ,” Mon Mothma interrupted. “We’ve no idea where she could be.”

“Jarrus and his padawan---”

“ _Galen_ ,” she interrupted again, with more bite than before. “I am asking _you_. Some day soon he will have to face Darth Vader, and no one has more intimate knowledge of him than you, with Obi-Wan dead and Ahsoka in the breeze. He deserves to learn and understand this Force nonsense, as well as anyone _can_ understand it.”

No, it was absolutely out of the question. He hadn’t come to Rishi, in the ass end of the galaxy, to have some _boy_ getting underfoot. What Galen needed was peace and quiet, and what Luke Skywalker represented was _danger_. He would bring war with him.

“Find him someone who wants a little puppy bounding after them,” Galen said. And he almost disconnected then -- _should_ have disconnected then, but Mon Mothma stopped him with her next words, sending a chill through his body. 

“You’re safe there,” she said. “But how much longer will that be true? If Vader and Sidious continue to spread their darkness through the galaxy, how safe will you _really_ be?”

He considered her words carefully, turned them over in his mind. Eventually, Vader would find him, and Vader would end him. The inevitability of his own death wasn’t nearly as painful as imagining what kind of horrible chaos he would wreak on Rishi. Every person there would pay for his isolation, and his refusal to get involved. 

_Shit._

“You expect me to believe this boy is strong enough to stop Darth Vader?” Galen asked.

“Obi-Wan believed in him,” Mon Mothma said.

High praise, at least, it might have been once. But Obi-Wan had disappeared into the blistering hot sun of Tatooine twenty years earlier, and he didn’t possess the same credibility he might have before. Then again, the boy _had_ destroyed the Death Star...

“I don’t think you called to give me a choice,” Galen said, and the smile returned to Mon Mothma’s face. 

“No,” she said. “But I do believe in diplomacy.”

 

****

Galen Marek. 

Luke had never heard of the man, but Leia paled at hearing his name. She spoke of a brutal, ruthless assassin that carried out the orders of Darth Vader and his master, but as Mon Mothma described him, he was simply a man living quietly on the pirate haven of Rishi. 

Leia called Mon Mothma, flustered and _angry_ , and demanded to know what she thought sending Luke to some murderer would accomplish. Mon Mothma, matching the princess’ fire and indignation, shot back that none of them were free of being called murderers, and Galen remained Luke’s best chance of stopping Vader. 

“He was Lord Vader’s _apprentice_ \---”

“Not everything is black and white,” Mon Mothma said, coolly. “I’d like to hear what Luke has to say.”

“He’s not going to train with some Sith Lord’s pet,” Leia nearly growled.

“He’s able to make his own decisions,” Mon Mothma challenged.

“He’s _not_ going---”

“I want to meet him,” Luke said, quietly, and he flushed when Leia’s anger was turned to him instead. “Master Obi-Wan said I should train with Master Yoda, but he also said I should find wisdom wherever I could. Maybe this Galen could teach me something.”

“He has an intimate understanding of Darth Vader,” Mon Mothma said. “I think he would be a valuable asset to the Rebellion.”

“Kriff the Rebellion,” Leia said, and it was obvious she was as shocked as Mon Mothma and Luke at the venom in her voice. “This isn’t about the Rebellion, it’s about sending Luke somewhere he might be hurt---”

“If you’re so concerned about him, why don’t you accompany him to Rishi?” Mon Mothma suggested. “You and that pilot of yours.”

Leia flushed at the mention of Han being _at all_ hers, and promptly disconnected the holocom, tearing out the wires when Mon Mothma attempted to reconnect their call. She fumed and paced, and Luke watched her silently, letting Leia work through her fury and frustration at her own pace. And, when she turned to him, and opened her mouth to tell him he had to stay, that he shouldn’t go chasing after mystical training in the back woods of the galaxy, Luke gave her a reassuring smile and pulled her into a hug. 

“I’ll be careful,” Luke said. “I promise. I’ll have Artoo with me. And I won’t go a day without calling. Okay?”

Artoo beeped in agreement, whirring and spinning and assuring Leia that nothing would happen to Luke. But Leia ignored the droid and kept her eyes on Luke. He knew she wanted to argue with him -- arguing was her favorite hobby, after all -- but he also knew that she wanted him to do whatever he thought was right.

“Just... Don’t trust him,” Leia cautioned, holding Luke by his collar and making sure he kept his eyes on her. “Don’t trust him and don’t turn your back on him and don’t---Don’t do anything stupid.”

“When have I ever done anything stupid?” Luke asked.

Leia groaned and hugged him again.

“You’re doomed,” she told him, and Luke could tell she was only half-kidding.


	2. Welcome To Rishi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arriving on Rishi, Luke doesn't get a very warm or hospitable welcome; not from the locals, and not from his new teacher, Galen Marek.

Chapter Two 

 

On the long journey to Rishi, Han remained unusually quiet. Luke chalked up his silence with not being able to express his emotions openly, and didn't think much of it until they had Rishi in their sights, and Han turned to him. His eyes were strangely glassy, as though his eyes had been watering and he'd blinked back tears, and Luke's chest hurt when he looked at him. 

He wished vehemently that Han would have gone to Hoth with Leia, instead of volunteering to personally see him safely to Rishi. At the time, Luke had been grateful for his company, instead of making the journey with only Artoo to have a conversation with. But Han hadn't wanted to talk, and Luke found himself wishing he'd had a small shuttle to himself.

Now, Han was watching him with his red-rimmed eyes, and _Luke_ was the one who wished they could keep the silence between them. Usually he wasn't so uneasy when it came to emotional confrontation, but Han Solo wasn't _supposed_ to have enough emotions to confront anyone with. 

Maybe before they'd gone through everything together, that had been true. But now, Han seemed to be acting against his better judgment and getting close to he and Leia than he'd let himself get to anyone before. And now that he had people to care about, he had shit to unpack, and Luke could see it annoyed him, having to _feel things_. 

“You don't have a kriffing _clue_ what you're doing,” Han said, matter-of-factly, as though Luke's opinion on the matter meant nothing. “Rishi is a shithole, and you're going in there with nothing but a smile on your face and some guy’s name who you don't even know.”

“Mon Mothma---”

“Politicians don't care what happens to us, kid, and if you think different, you're dumber than I thought. Mon Mothma gets to sit safe and sound while we run around like lunatics doing her dirty work for her.” 

He was agitated, that was easy to see, but Luke let him rant and rave without challenging him or trying to interrupt him. Sometimes people had too much piled on top of them, and it was either sit and bear their anger, or watch as they became buried. 

“You go down there, and you're gonna die,” Han said. 

Well, he'd never been one to mince words. 

“This is what I have to do,” Luke said, calmly, keeping his voice soft and low. “I know you and Leia are worried about me---”

“Hey, don't read into it,” Han said. “I just know how important you are to the Rebellion, and I don't want you getting knifed in an alley so Darth Asshole can take over the galaxy.”

Luke tried to stifle a smile, but he couldn't help himself. He grinned, and Han hemmed and hawed for a few minutes while Luke sat looking smugly satisfied. 

“This isn't a joke,” Han said.

“I'm not laughing,” Luke argued. But he chuckled when Han threw up his hands and turned back to the yoke. 

“Fine, great,” Han said. “Go get yourself killed. See if I care.”

Rishi loomed before them, a world of rich greens and blues, and Luke wondered how terrible such a beautiful place could possibly be. If even a morally dubious smuggler like Han wanted to steer clear of it....

“What do you know about it?” Luke asked.

“It's a shithole,” Han repeated. “Full of pirates and raiders and thieves. You'll be lucky if you manage to walk ten feet before someone makes off with that fancy little sword of yours.”

Luke absently stroked his fingers over the hilt of his lightsaber. “It's lawless?”

“Pirate law is complicated,” Han said. “They make it up as they go. And if they have to slit a few throats for creds, well...”

“You really have a way with words,” Luke said, wearily, feeling his stomach roil. 

“I'm a storyteller,” Han said. “What can I say, kid.”

****

Han refused to hang around Rishi for more time than it took to tell Luke goodbye. There were already raiders and thieves eyeing the Millennium Falcon, mentally stripping and gutting her for parts, but Han kept his hand on his blaster as he stood on the docks with Luke. A warm, foul-smelling breeze shuffled his hair, and his face wrinkled at the odor. 

“No idea why anyone would wanna live here,” Han grumbled. “Or why anyone would want to spend any time here if they didn’t have to.”

He eyed Luke as he said the words, but of course, Luke _did_ have to be there. It was either Rishi or Dagobah to train with Master Yoda, and either way, there would have been danger. Obi-Wan believed he possessed the courage and the goodness and the strength to be a Jedi, and Luke wouldn’t let some raiders keep him from fulfilling his destiny. 

Or... he hoped it was his destiny. Could his destiny be bleeding out on the docks while some pirate made off with his lightsaber and scavengers picked over his body?

With a shiver, Luke pushed the thought away. 

“Be careful,” Han said. Realizing, too late, that he sounded like he actually _cared_ what happened to Luke, he flushed, scratching the back of his neck. “You know, for the princess’ sake. She’s kinda fond of you.”

“Yeah,” Luke said. “I knew what you meant.”

He hugged Han, and smiled when Han grudgingly hugged him back. His body was stiff, unyielding, but he gradually melted into the embrace. “Just... don’t do anything stupid,” Han said, softly. “Watch your back. Keep that fancy sword of yours handy. Don’t... Just don’t die, okay?”

Did everyone think he was some hapless puppy, bounding into danger with no thought to his own safety and wellbeing? Had he destroyed the Death Star and risked his life just for people to think he was a child who would get himself killed?

Luke pulled away from Han, feeling a sudden and sullen rush of resentment towards him. He was the dashing smuggler that Leia loved, and Luke was just a little boy with a little boy’s foolish dreams. 

But Han cupped his face in his hands and forced Luke to look at him.

“You can do this,” Han said. “I know that. It’s just... You’re important, to people. Other people. Not me.”

His resentment was engulfed, powerfully, by love. Maybe he was too young to be there, with the whole galaxy’s weight on his shoulders, if his emotions could be so drastically moved by a handful of words from a smuggler, but Luke didn’t care. His love, for his friends, for the whole galaxy, would make him stronger. 

“Be careful,” Han repeated, for what felt like the thousandth time.

“I don’t know,” Luke teased. “I was thinking about walking down a lot of dark alleyways.”

“ _Luke_.”

“I’ll be careful,” Luke promised. 

Han might have cautioned him more, but out of the corner of his eye, he spotted one of the raiders he’d warned Luke about creeping nearer to the Falcon, and he growled a warning at the would-be thief and charged at him with his blaster drawn.

By the time he sent the scoundrel away with a solid kick to his backside, Luke was gone. 

****

Rishi wasn’t what he’d been expecting. By all accounts, it was a den of thievery and debauchery, filled with all manner of vile, unscrupulous people that Luke should avoid like the rakghoul plague. Han warned there was no law and order, that the pirates and raiders held dominion. Leia warned that everyone was a liar and not to be trusted; that the only thing to trust on Rishi was yourself. Mon Mothma, too, warned that it was wild, and that it had resisted both Republic and Imperial occupation simply because it was too uncivilized to ever be settled properly. 

Luke found it to be vibrant, filled with colors and smells and sounds he’d never seen before. Everywhere he looked, there were vendors selling their wares, some of them avian, with bold feathers that shimmered in the sun. The smell of the place was the sea, salty and clean, and the savory scent of meat roasting on spits. His stomach growling, Luke stopped to buy some of the strange meat, fascinated by the avian merchant with his bright, exotic plumage and beautiful eyes. 

Rishi was a place of beauty, and it may have been wild and lawless, but Luke relished the sights and sounds and smells as he walked the docks and ate the spiced meat with juices running down his chin. 

There were men and women in flowing, colorful silks, dancing as musicians played for them. Crowds gathered, clapping and stomping with the beat of the music, and Luke joined them. For a little while, he wasn’t Luke Skywalker, last hope of the universe; he was only human, laughing and clapping and stomping and watching the dancers move rhythmically and lasciviously, with sweat beading on their brown skin. For a little while, he was only part of a crowd, falling a little in love with the dancers as they moved. 

Artoo whirred and chirped, and Luke sighed resignedly, chucking the spit that had held his meat into the water before turning with Artoo on his heels. 

“I know, I know,” Luke grumbled. “I need to find what’s-his-name.”

Artoo beeped louder.

“Galen,” Luke said. “Right. That was it.”

As they moved away from the boardwalk, with its warmth and its vibrancy and its smells of roasted meat and sea-salt, the air became cooler, pricking goosebumps along his skin. A thick, soupy fog moved in, suddenly, cutting visibility from a mile to two inches, and Luke groped his way along, with the first real shivers of unease creeping up his spine. Was this the parts of Rishi that everyone had warned him about? Had the boardwalk been an illusion, and everything was simply fog and chill and the sound of the ocean slapping against the pilings under his feet, almost hungrily?

He could still taste the spiced meat on his tongue, but the boardwalk now seemed to be a thousand miles and years away. 

From his right, as he moved through the white sheet of fog, there was a whimper of pain. Someone cried out for help, and despite his unease, Luke moved to where they whined and moaned in agony. Through the fog, he could see a man lying on the planks of wood, and Luke reached for him, meaning to help him onto his feet, when there was a sharp, sudden pain at his temple.

The world exploded in white, and he must have passed out, briefly, because by the time his eyes cleared and he could sit upright, the injured man was standing with a group of three other men, picking through his pack. Artoo was upended, whirring and beeping, and Luke instinctively tried to move to where the droid was, with one of the thugs who had jumped him resting their boot on his chassis. Deep, sharp pain spiked at his temple, and he swooned backwards, drawing the attention of the men who had lured him into the alley. 

One of them came over, sneering coldly, leaning down close to Luke’s face with his foul breath rushing out. 

“Been a long time since we seen anyone with one of _these_ ,” the thief said, holding up Luke’s lightsaber and dangling it just out of his reach. Whenever he tried to get his feet under him, his vision blurred and threaded with white, and he fell back onto his rear painfully. 

This was how it was going to end for him. In some fogged alleyway, after being lured there like some brainless child. He hadn’t been meant for greatness at all, only a -- hopefully -- quick, messy death on some backwater planet no one had ever heard of. Obi-Wan had been wrong about him, and that stung worse than even his own impending death could; he was letting Obi-Wan down, after everything the old man had done for him.

Luke wondered if they would kill him with his own lightsaber. They weren’t skilled enough to wield it properly, of course, but it didn’t take a master swordsman to hold a sword long enough to kill someone. All they had to do was give him a quick, clean slice across the neck, and that’d be the end of it.

He thought of Han and Leia telling him he shouldn’t go to Rishi, and he supposed dying was better than hearing them say they’d told him so. 

His eyes closed, and he felt the embrace of the Force, and it wasn’t so terrible. Fleetingly, he tried to lash out with it, to use it as a weapon against the men around him, to push them away into the water, but all he earned through his fierce concentration was a headache. 

The familiar static energy of a lightsaber being engaged surrounded him, and he waited for the killing blow. He wondered what dying would feel like, if it would hurt, or if it would only be a flash of white and then infinite darkness. 

But instead of feeling the slice of a saber through him, Luke instead heard the pained cries of the men that surrounded him; and unlike earlier, this cries were very much real. 

Luke’s eyes flashed open, and he saw a figure in the fog, the blue glow of his lightsaber casting him in an ethereal aura. He spun his body as effortlessly and beautifully as the dancers on the boardwalk, his feet never even making noise on the planks of wood beneath them. Luke watched him, awed by his nubile, athletic grace, as he danced around the raiders. One of them lunged at him with a knife, and the man easily dodged the attack, thrusting his palm out and sending the attacker flying backwards. Luke heard a splash as the man plummeted into the water, and he couldn’t help but laugh when the other men scattered like rats.

The one who had Luke’s lightsaber was caught and pinned against the rickety wall of a boathouse. And the man advanced on him, his own lightsaber held buzzing and snapping close to the thief’s throat. 

“Does that belong to you?” The man asked, and the thief sputtered and sobbed and dropped the lightsaber quickly. There was a moment where Luke wondered if the man was going to kill the thief, just as a show for the others who had scattered, and he felt a cold chill move through him. But the man simply tossed the thief away, and turned his back to him as he got his feet under him and scampered away. 

Galen Marek didn’t look like the vids and pictures Luke had been shown. The man Luke had been searching for had his hair shorn, and a permanent, deep-cut scowl on his face. This man had a thick, wavy head of auburn hair, and a smirk on his face as he walked through the fog to where Luke lay. 

“My, my lightsaber---”

“This isn’t how I imagined we’d start your training,” Galen said. “But I’m not a very choosy man. Your lesson for today is apparently retrieving your lightsaber.”

Luke moved to crawl across the boards to where his saber laid strewn, but Galen stopped him.

“No,” Galen said. “That would be an awfully easy first lesson, don’t you think? I want you to retrieve your lightsaber with the Force.”

Luke was fairly certain he was seriously concussed, and he was positive that he needed to see a doctor, so why was Galen -- his supposed teacher and _master_ \-- making him perform for him when he was so obviously injured? 

“I can’t---”

“I really do hate that word,” Galen said, softly, but there was something caustic beneath the silk of his words. Luke had been told that there was an edge to the man, that he could cut thoughtlessly, but he hadn’t imagined that he could be so terrifyingly _unmoved_ by someone hurt and in distress. “If that’s the kind of student you’re going to be, then I should call the Resistance right now and have them send me someone with some worth ethic.”

Luke clenched his jaw, suddenly and powerfully wishing he could use the Force to knock his teeth out. Was this who Mon Mothma believed would make a good teacher? Had she completely lost her senses?

He knew, fundamentally, what to do to draw objects to him. Obi-Wan had taught him that the Force surrounding and penetrated everything, even the smallest and most infinitesimal object. And so of course he could feel his lightsaber through the Force, could feel the kyber crystal inside vibrating, yearning for him. 

But no matter how hard he concentrated, the saber remained motionless. 

Galen was relentless, however, even having a seat with his feet dangling over the murky water and Luke strained and struggled behind him. When Artoo beeped in alarm and attempted to come to Luke’s aid, Galen kept the droid still with the flick of his wrist, pinning him in some stasis that of course a more experienced Force-user could accomplish without even breaking a sweat. 

Frustrated tears pricked Luke’s eyes, and he could feel his heart fluttering wildly at the pulse at his throat. Why wouldn’t Galen simply hand him his lightsaber and _help him_? Why was he being so obstinate?

“Relax,” Galen said, which only made Luke even more tense and frustrated. “Breathe. Slowly. In and out. Think of the Force like a steady, flowing river. Let yourself be carried along it. Stop fighting.”

Luke listened, begrudgingly, closing his eyes and doing his best to still himself and center his thoughts. He imagined a river, flowing along a hillside, and he imagined himself within it, pulled beneath the rushing, pounding current, but not afraid of being lost or consumed. His heart beat as slow and steady as the river in his mind, and when his lightsaber slid into his curled fingers, he opened his eyes in surprise.

“Good,” Galen said. “There’s some hope for you.”

He came over, offering Luke his hand, but Luke refused him, finding his feet on his own. For a brief second, he was smugly proud of himself, before he swooned into Galen’s arms.

Galen Marek was supposed to be an unsmiling, grim, shorn-haired relic; he was supposed to have been molded and shaped by Darth Vader, rough-hewn and incapable of softness; but he was smiling, and his hands were warm and softly strong at the small of Luke’s back. A sheaf of hair fell into his eyes, and Luke felt a pang of sudden want that he shoved away as forcefully as he shoved Galen. 

“Luke Skywalker,” Galen said, chuckling. “Welcome to Rishi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> luke: promises han he won't be stupid  
> luke: is stupid


	3. And The Force Changes Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke gets some insight into the nature of the Force -- and the nature of his teacher.

Warm, salty sea air rifled through his hair, lifting it from his forehead and carding unseen fingers along his scalp. For a moment, he relished the feeling, feeling the breeze cool the sweat that had sprung at his temples. But his brief pleasure was interrupted by Galen's voice as he snapped at him for his distraction. One of the strange monkey-lizards that seemed at times to outnumber the _people_ of Rishi, screeched at the echo of Galen's voice, and bounded down the boardwalk.

“You're not here to enjoy the breeze, Skywalker,” Galen chided. And _kriff_ , he had a way of getting under Luke's skin so _easily_. Sometimes just a certain look he gave, or the way he sometimes breathed in sharply through his nose when he was displeased, was enough to raise Luke's hackles. His training had only started a week earlier, and already he and Galen had clashed more than a handful of times. 

Luke _never_ fought with anyone. Not even Han possessed the prickly disposition needed to needle at Luke enough to make him _angry_. And, worse, was when he was angry, Galen seemed to delight in taunting him and reminding him that Jedi weren't supposed to be angry. 

“You get angry,” Luke had accused, when Galen had teased him. 

“ _I'm_ not a Jedi,” Galen had reminded him. 

After that, Luke stopped challenging the man. He instead decided to sulk, which was definitely not the most _mature_ thing to do, but he didn't exactly feel very mature when Galen was taunting him. 

He wondered if he should slip away sometime in the night, and make his way to Dagobah. Surely training with Master Yoda would have proven less frustrating? 

Luke realized, a moment after he felt the surge of the Force around him, that he'd been lost in thought and hadn't paid attention to Galen's instruction. He tried to move, and found himself frozen, and he huffed in annoyance. 

“You're not here to enjoy the breeze, Skywalker,” Galen repeated. “You came to me because you wanted to _learn_.”

“So _teach me_ ,” Luke snapped. “All you've done is snipe at me since I've gotten here---”

“If you wanted someone to coddle you, you've come to the wrong place,” Galen said. The rictus of the Force relaxed, and Luke slumped forward, pouting and sullen and not caring if the fate of the galaxy was resting on his shoulders; he hated Rishi and he wanted to leave. “The Rebellion didn't send you here because they wanted you to be coddled.”

“I don't want to be coddled,” Luke bit, and he hated that he seemed incapable of letting Galen's cutting remarks glance painlessly off of him. “I want to _learn._ ”

“Then focus,” Galen said. His voice softened, lost its edge, and Luke shivered as the breeze swept around his temples. “Close your eyes, and feel the Force move around you. Inside of you. I can't teach someone who's so insistent on being _petulant_.”

It stung, but not as harshly as it might have before his voice had dulled its edges. He was being petulant, and stubborn, and prideful, and they weren't things that a Jedi should ever be. He thought of Obi-Wan, of his quiet dignity and composure, and he thought of his father, who had been a great Jedi. Had his father struggled with his emotions? Had be struggled with his pride and his passion and his place in the universe? 

Had he been afraid, the way Luke was afraid? 

Thinking of his father centered him, helped him focus on nothing but his breathing and the smell of the salty air. He could feel the Force, distantly, but it didn't feel powerful enough to surround him or penetrate him. It felt like something far-off, something out in the stars that he couldn't touch, that couldn't touch _him._

Luke felt himself growing frustrated, and hot tears crested under his lashes.

_Galen_ was solid and substantial, closer to him than the Force. He felt him move beside him, felt the tickle of his lips as he leaned in close and whispered to him: “The hardest thing you'll ever do is trust in the Force. But it's the first thing you _have_ to do. When everything and everyone else has abandoned you, the Force will remain.”

There was some emotion in his voice Luke couldn't put a name to. Something like longing, and sadness, and regret, all tangled together. 

The words stilled him, refocused him, and Luke put every ounce of himself into feeling for the Force. Every atom and fiber of his being searched for it, _yearned_ for it, and for the first few moments, it felt as though there was an ache in him that might never, ever be relieved; and then, he felt it, questing for him as he quested for it. And the Force was not a river, but an _ocean_ , deep and wide and endless and frightening and _exhilarating_. 

Luke was succumbed by it, overcome by the breadth and depth of it, and he resisted his knee-jerk reaction to break his concentration and retreat from the presence that surrounded him.

_The hardest thing you'll ever do is trust in the Force._

Perhaps there was some merit to the man Mon Mothma had sent him to for instruction, because Galen was absolutely right. Nothing had ever scared him so terribly, or thrilled him so much. And Luke imagined that the Force could be tempting and tempestuous and _dangerous_ , that the bright and dizzying and shining heights of it were only the beginning; that there was deep, eternal, terrible darkness underneath, running through the heart of the Force like tainted blood.

_The path to the dark side can begin in light_ , Obi-Wan had counseled him, what felt like ages ago now, and he remembered that he'd scoffed at the idea at first. It seemed ludicrous to think that anyone with good intentions could ever become so lost that they walked in the dark. But now, sitting there with the Force rushing over him like roaring, crashing water, Luke could feel that it was not only possible, but almost _inevitable_ , and that scared him.

“Light and dark are just words,” Galen said, sensing Luke's unease and fear. “What matters is what you _do_. What matters is what you _desire_.”

Before his life had been upended and forever changed, his desires had been simple. He'd wanted to leave the farm and join the Rebellion. He hadn't thought much about what might come after that, or what else his heart might hunger for. 

And now---

“Home,” Luke whispered, and the tears were back, warm under his lashes. 

Wasn't that strange? And sad? And _awful_? 

All that time he'd spent wanting to leave, to be gone, to explore the stars and lose himself in adventure, and there he was, wishing he could go back home. 

He opened his eyes, and found himself looking at a large stone, lifted from the water, still dripping water and half-covered with moss. 

“What---”

His concentration shattered, the boulder crashed back into the water, splashing Luke and drenching him. 

“Not bad,” Galen said, and Luke noticed he had moved back from the edge of the water, and was perfectly composed and dry. “You have promise, if you can keep focused.”

Luke shoved his wet hair from his forehead, shaking off like a dog and giving Galen a dark glare.

“Next time, wear a poncho,” Galen teased, and if Luke had been able to summon the Force then, he would have shoved him back into the water. 

****

The food Galen prepared wasn't as decadent and delicious as the skewered meat the locals on the boardwalk sold, but it was filling, and there was plenty of it. Luke wasn't sure what was in it, and he decided it was better if he didn't know. It made it a lot easier to digest.

After dinner, Galen meditated, and Luke joined him. Or, rather, he _pretended_ to join him. He used Galen's intense and _insular_ concentration, to watch and study him. 

He wasn't as grim and severe as Luke had expected. His exercises and training pushed Luke, and he could be rather abrasive, but he seemed to do everything with a sense of humor. Every thing he'd been told about Galen Marek had prepared him for an unsmiling man who would be more droid than man. But Galen was... Difficult to get a handle on, or comprehend. At times, he was amiable, amenable, and at others, he was guarded and withdrawn. 

Too late, Luke realized that Galen was watching him, with his strange, pale eyes. 

He flushed, looking away, but Galen continued to be impossible to read and laughed. “Are you always so resistant to following instruction?” He asked. “I don't know what Obi-Wan saw in such a disobedient student.”

“Master Obi-Wan was a good teacher,” Luke said.

“Oh,” Galen chuckled. “That must be the problem, hm?”

Silence settled between them, not entirely uncomfortable, and Luke was almost convicted Galen had returned to his mediation when he said: “I never had a home.”

Luke blinked, startled, and stared at Galen as his pale eyes slowly opened.

“I never had a place to call my own, or anyone that I felt I could build a home around, except for---” He stopped himself, shook his head, closed his eyes and took in a deep, steadying breath. “I don't know what it's like to lose a home, or a family. But I know what it's like to want _them_.”

Luke wanted to apologize, which was an asinine thing to do. Galen didn't want his apology or his sympathy.

“That's... too bad,” Luke said, uncomfortably. 

“No, it's not,” Galen said. “It's too bad you had to lose people you cared for. That's why the Empire has to be stopped. It's not bullshit about _light_ and _dark_. It's kids just like you not having a home or a family anymore. The Jedi get too involved in their philosophy, the Sith get too consumed by their desire. You don't have to _choose_. You only have to _live_ the way that you want. The Force isn't inherently good or bad.”

“It's a river and an ocean and whatever other metaphor people want to apply to it---”

“It's all those things,” Galen said. “But it's also a _tool_ , and a tool is only what people use it to accomplish. If a man fights for peace, then the Force will be a beacon, and if he fights for himself, it will be armor. We change the Force, and the Force changes us.”

The words resonated through him, like a hammer against his ribs, and even after Galen had left him to his thoughts to retire for the night, Luke sat up reflecting on them.

_We change the Force, and the Force changes us._

What, then, would the Force become for him? 

What, then, would the Force make _him_ become?


	4. Good Advice: Not Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With words of warning from Leia still echoing in his head, Luke finds himself inexorably drawn to Galen, in spite of himself.

Static snapped and fizzled from his holocom, and Luke groaned as he turned over in bed and tried his best to ignore whoever was trying to get a hold of him. But the incessant beeping that followed the roar of static was impossible to block out, and with a continuous groan of annoyance, Luke sat up and grumpily answered the call. 

He wished he’d tidied himself up before answering when he saw who it was; Leia, with her hair nearly tied back from her face and her dark eyes widened in surprise. She looked away as Luke hurriedly pulled on his clothes, flushed and nervously laughing and shaking, which only made it even more difficult to get his kriffing pants pulled on. 

“Leia,” he huffed, when he returned to bed and folded his legs underneath him. His face was burning, little pinpricks of embarrassment tingling behind his ears, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to look up and meet Leia’s eyes. “What do you want?” 

That sounded harsh, and he cringed, quickly amending: “I mean, is something wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Leia said, but there was something in her voice that made Luke think she wasn’t fine at all. But of course she’d never tell him. Leia Organa wasn’t one to cry on someone’s shoulder, no matter how immensely she might have trusted them; she seemed to be made of stone and steel, but still able to bend and be soft for the people around her. She just wouldn’t let herself receive the same kind of care she gave to others. 

“I’m more worried about you,” Leia said. “It’s been a few weeks and we haven’t heard from you. I thought maybe--- I don’t know what I thought, I just wanted to check in on you.”

“Everything’s fine here,” Luke said. Another little lie between them. Everything _wasn’t_ fine, but it was bearable. Galen had proven to be a wise and knowledgeable teacher, even if he still remained too elusive and shadowed for Luke to ever understand. 

His mystery wasn’t altogether a _bad_ thing, either. Sometimes, Luke would watch him while he meditated, or while he didn’t know Luke had his eyes on him, and he would find himself drawn to him, as inexorably and inevitably as a moth to a flame. And it would feel his stomach with butterflies and make his entire body flush. _That_ was certainly a bad thing, because the last thing Luke wanted was... well, to _want_ anyone, especially Galen Marek. 

“Luke,” Leia said, for what must have been the twentieth time judging by the irritation in her voice. “Are you listening to me?”

“Mm?” Luke hummed, still flushed and warm all over. In embarrassment and...something else, that he didn’t particularly want to dwell on. 

“I asked how your training is going,” Leia said. “I’ve heard stories about Galen Marek, and I just--- I don’t think you should be there.”

“Not this again,” Luke sighed.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” Leia said. “I’m just trying to protect you---”

“Why is everyone convinced I _need_ protecting?” Luke snapped, and he could tell, without looking up, that Leia was startled by the venom in his voice. Sometimes he could almost tap into what Leia was thinking and feeling it always left him feeling strange and out of sorts. 

“Luke---”

“I’m not a kid,” Luke said. But he certainly _felt like one_ , when he heard the whine in his own voice. He was light years away from home, in some place that reeked of salt and seaweed and sweat and desperation, with a man who could turn from cold and domineering to companionable and affable at the drop of the hat. And she wanted to _protect him_ , like he was a little boy who’d gotten himself lost.

“I know you’re not,” Leia said. “But you don’t know anything about him---”

“I know enough,” Luke said.

“If you’d let me _finish_ ,” Leia bit. “And stop interrupting me, I was going to say that you don’t know what he’s capable of. I’ve heard the stories about him. He was Darth Vader’s _apprentice_ , why would he ever want to help the Rebellion? Why would he ever want to help _you_?” 

Luke had wondered the same thing. But why would Mon Mothma send him to Galen if she hadn’t believed he was the best teacher for him? Why would she compromise his safety? He could have easily gone to Dagobah in search of Master Yoda. Her estimation of the most powerful Jedi, even before the Order had been nearly exterminated, seemed especially low, however. She referred to him as a relic, an outdated example of everything that was wrong with the Jedi Order. 

Master Obi-Wan had spoken highly of Master Yoda, but he had done so with an almost monotonous, automatic reverence, as though it was something that had been drilled into him at a young age, and something he had never quite unlearned. 

Had Mon Mothma sent him to someone dangerous? Someone who might betray him and the whole Rebellion, simply because she _disliked_ Master Yoda? Would she have compromised their safety and their success for such a small, petty reason? 

Of course not, that was ridiculous.

But still... why was he on Rishi and not Dagobah?

Why was he with Darth Vader’s apprentice instead of the last living Jedi Master? 

“He was Darth Vader’s apprentice,” Luke said, weakly, feebly, feeling his argument dry up in his throat. 

“Everything Darth Vader touches is ruined,” Leia said, and it chilled Luke to the bone to hear how devoid of sympathy her voice was. But she had watched her entire planet -- everything she had ever known and everyone she had ever loved -- destroyed right in front of her eyes, and her heart was hardened to Darth Vader, and to anything or anyone that had ever been allied with him. 

“Just be careful,” Leia counseled him. “Don’t ever let him out of your sight. Don’t ever turn your back to him. Don’t ever let your guard down. _Be safe_ , Luke.”

He must have agreed, he couldn’t be sure, his head was spinning, because Leia disconnected their call and he was left in silence that felt oppressive. 

Footsteps were coming, stomping on boards outside the tiny hut, and Luke curled back up in his blankets and did his best to pretend he was sleeping. He thought of Leia telling him not to turn his back to Galen, or let down his guard, and he kept himself vigilant, watching from between a small gap in the blankets as Galen entered with the dim light of dawn behind him. 

“Out of bed, sleepyhead,” Galen said. “You won’t be defeating any Sith Lords if you stay in bed all day.”

Luke slipped out of bed, carefully watching Galen as he moved around their small, shared space. There didn’t seem to be anything off about him, nothing that should set Luke on edge; but Leia’s voice lingered at the back of his head all the same. 

_Don’t ever let him out of your sight. Don’t ever turn your back on him. Don’t ever let your guard down._

His fingers rested over the hilt of his lightsaber as he watched Galen, and while he didn’t share Leia’s distrust, he remained dedicated to keeping his eyes on him. 

****

_Don’t ever turn your back on him._

Well, there was a promise broken, because as soon as he and Galen were outside, he was pressed up against Luke’s back with his arms wrapped around him. What might have been intimate in different circumstances, was instead only uncomfortably formal, as Galen directed Luke how to hold his lightsaber, and how to position his body. 

“No,” Galen said, and his voice was gruff, breath hot right against Luke’s ear. Luke shivered, and tried to pretend it was because Galen’s breath _tickled_ , not because it felt so good on his skin. “If you go into battle holding your lightsaber like _that_ you’ll be dead in two seconds. Fighting Stormtroopers is one thing, they can’t hit the broadside of a barn from two feet away, but if you go at Darth Vader with this kind of stance he _will_ end you.”

Luke swallowed, ignoring the grim statement and only trying to focus himself on the feel of his saber in his hands, the placement of his feet, the slight swivel of his hips. It seemed impossible that such a stance could ever be second nature, that he would ever slip into it as effortlessly and seamlessly as Galen did. He felt awkward, made entirely of elbows and knees, as Galen moved his limbs and joints and widened the grip on the hilt of his lightsaber. 

“The old philosophy used to say that your lightsaber was a part of you,” Galen said. “Lucky for you, that’s not true, because this isn’t yours, is it?”

“How did---”

“You don’t know how to hold it,” Galen interrupted. “I can feel the kyber crystal straining against you. This isn’t your lightsaber.”

“It belonged to my father,” Luke said. “He was a great Jedi, until Darth Vader cut him down.”

He expected Galen to tease him for his sentimentality, or perhaps point out that vengeance would only lead him to despair, as Obi-Wan had told him, but instead, Galen nodded with understanding, and squeezed his fingers around Luke’s wrists. 

“Will you kill him?” Galen asked. The way he asked the question, it seemed such a small, simple thing, but it made Luke’s blood run cold. The goosebumps that spread across his skin had very little to do with Galen’s arms around him and his breath on his ear. Luke shrugged out of his arms, looking back at him over his shoulder. 

“What?” He asked. 

“Will you kill him?” Galen repeated, perfectly calm. “If you win, will you kill him?”

Everything in him recoiled from the idea, and he could hear Obi-Wan at the back of his mind, whispering that mercy was the greatest tool a Jedi could ever wield. But, beneath his instinctive disgust, there was a sickening kind of _thrill_ at the idea. Darth Vader had been a plague on the Galaxy for decades -- he had killed and tortured and injured and displaced and terrorized _millions_ , and Luke couldn’t see how his death could ever be a bad thing. 

If he’d been on Dagobah, with Master Yoda asking him the same question, perhaps his answer would have been shrouded in half-truths; he might have said that no, he would never, he could never, he would show temerity and mercy and kindness. But Galen watched him with his pale, steady stare, and Luke felt no need to hide anything from him. 

_Don’t ever let your guard down._

“I don’t know,” Luke answered, honestly. “I might.”

Galen nodded, and never counseled Luke that the small, lingering darkness in his heart might spread and corrupt him. He shrugged out of his tunic, instead, exposing his chest and stomach to the warm air, and Luke flushed and looked away from him. 

“What are you doing?” Luke asked, voice trembling.

“If you want to kill Darth Vader, you need to be strong enough,” Galen said, and Luke heard the familiar sound of his lightsaber being engaged. “Come at me with everything you have. Don’t hold back, because I promise I won’t.”

Luke looked at him, to make sure he wasn’t teasing him, but he saw only sharp focus in Galen’s eyes. Following his lead, Luke removed his robe, goosebumps spreading over his skin as the wind caressed over him. Unable to help himself, Luke looked Galen over, tracing the edges and curves of his body, descending down the trail of hair below his navel that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. Realizing his blood was pumping quite hard, and not entirely to his brain, Luke returned his stare to Galen’s face.

“Come on, Skywalker,” Galen taunted. “Are you afraid?”

Yes, he was. He was afraid of Darth Vader, afraid of the Empire, afraid of his role in the Rebellion, afraid of his own death and failure. Afraid that if he succeeded, if he ended Darth Vader and struck down the Empire, he would lose something vital to himself. 

Not wanting to show any vulnerability -- clinging to Leia’s advice that he couldn’t let his guard down, that he couldn’t show Galen any kind of weak point -- Luke gripped his lightsaber and engaged it, bathing his face in wavering blue light. 

“No,” he said. “But _you_ will be.” 

****

Luke stretched out on the boardwalk, carefully, wincing as every inch of his body seemed to scream in protest. Beside him, Galen stretched out with languid ease, arms tucked behind his head and a slight, crooked smile on his face. 

“You don’t have to gloat,” Luke said.

“Now why would I gloat?” Galen asked. “Beating a little boy isn’t that great of an accomplishment. Besides, this was part of your training, not an attempt to show off. Although I suppose I was impressive.”

“I’m not a little boy,” Luke snapped, skin flushed with anger.

Galen leaned up on his elbow, his eyes flicking over Luke and his smile spreading, just enough to send little shivers up Luke’s spine. “No,” he said, and Luke thought he heard the hint of want in his voice. “You’re not a little boy.”

“Galen,” Luke whispered, his eyes trained on Galen’s mouth. It looked like it’d be soft, but like his kiss would be a little hard. Like he’d be teeth and tongue and heat and dull nails scratching down his back---

“Come on,” Galen said, suddenly, standing and offering his hand to Luke. Like the first time they’d met, almost, except Luke felt no stubborn pride demand he refuse his hand. Instead, he accepted his help, and made no attempt to correct himself when his injuries promptly sent him collapsing into Galen’s arms. “You’re hopeless,” Galen sighed, scooping Luke into his arms and carrying him into their shared hut with a roll of his eyes. 

Yes, Luke thought.

He was hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a simple woman with simple tastes, and i'm not above a little fanservice ;)


	5. Bad Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galen is awakened by nightmares, and realizes what he needs to do for Luke's next training exercise.

_He dreamed of the dark, of inky-blackness that stretched on and on. Somewhere in that dark, he could hear his own heart beating, fast and hard, like a tribal drum banging ceaselessly into the black._

_Galen hadn't been afraid of the dark, until Darth Vader had cast his long, cold shadow over him. Sometimes he wondered if his progenitor -- the real Galen Marek, had felt the same, or if he was only a defect, something that had malfunctioned and deviated from the original. All he could think of, floating in that darkness, was standing on some rain-slicked platform, as Darth Vader advanced on him with the red of his lightsaber flashing in the building puddles under his feet. And somewhere, she was there -- Juno -- and the sound of her heart beating was fainter, weaker than his own._

_Lightning forked into the darkness, and thunder boomed. Galen shrunk from the noise, small and shivering, pitifully, pathetically weak. When he felt the rain pelt his face, and the wind rush past his ears, he knew that he was on that platform, that he would open his eyes and would find Darth Vader marching towards him with his cape billowing and his lightsaber sparking. Galen wished, hoped, prayed, that he was wrong, but as his eyes opened, he saw the familiar shape of Darth Vader against the backdrop of the sky, and he moaned in fear._

_“You were my worst mistake,” Vader said, his unnatural voice making goosebumps prick over Galen's skin. “I should have exterminated you the moment you took your first shuddering breaths.”_

_Even though he knew it was a dream, a product of his own twisted imagination, the words stung, like thorns being pressed into his heart._

_“You're nothing but a failed copy, a derivative, a defect. Galen Marek was strong, and here you cower in the rain, like a child.”_

_“Stop,” Galen whined, feeling hot tears mix with the cold rain on his face. “Stop.”_

_“You couldn't stop me,” Vader continued, his voice booming louder than the thunder, striking sharper than the lightning. “I remain, the galaxy held in the palm of my hand, because you could not stop me.”_

_“Enough!” Galen screamed. “Shut up! Shut up!”_

_“And now you drag another to his end,” Vader said, and though his voice was made more of circuitry than vocal chords, Galen could detect a pitying softness there; as though he was sorry that it had come to this. But Darth Vader felt nothing except a maelstrom of hatred and rage, and this shade of him in Galen's dream was a mockery._

_Still, Galen wasn't able to force himself into consciousness, or put space between himself and the folds of his dream. And he watched as Luke Skywalker raced across the platform, his lightsaber bathing his face in vivid, shivering blue. He watched as Darth Vader tossed Luke across the platform with barely more than the flick of his wrist; and he watched, in frozen horror, as Darth Vader marched across the platform and impaled Luke on his lightsaber._

_Color bled out of the dream, drifting into lifeless gray, and Galen could hear himself screaming, distantly, as though he were miles and miles away._

_“You killed him,” he kept shouting, in horror, in disbelief, in grief. “You killed him.”_

_“No,” Vader said, his voice chasing Galen out of the dream. “You killed him, by filling his head with thoughts of peace and victory._

_You killed him.”_

****

Galen awoke with a scream building behind his teeth. He could taste the coppery flavor of adrenaline at the back of his throat, and his heart was hammering wildly against his ribs. It took him a few minutes to shake off the dream, to feel its hold on him weakening, and by the time he was able to breathe normally, and his heart slowed to its regular beat, daylight was beginning to break through the tattered curtains.

Typically, a dream was shed the moment he awoke, and he never dwelled or picked over them. But that morning, he seemed unable to let the dream go. Not because Vader had taunted and tormented him with barbs of his worthlessness and lack of identity -- Galen was used to such dreams, and knew them to be the product of his own mind -- but because of Luke.

_Luke._

He was still sleeping, curled up on a thin, sagging cot with his blonde hair a tangled mess and his clothes crooked and wrinkled. Watching him, Galen could only think of his face as Vader had driven his lightsaber through him. 

What was he doing? 

Why was he there? 

What could Galen ever teach him that would prepare Luke for a confrontation with the greatest evil in the galaxy? 

What was he doing except preparing Luke for his own painful death?

“You never should have come here,” Galen said, softly. He sat down beside where Luke slept, fingers clutched at his own thighs to keep them from reaching out and touching Luke; smoothing the hair from his forehead or circling the bow of his mouth. “You don't belong here. Go back to Tatooine, go farm and marry some boy or girl and live as quietly as you can. Don't get involved in this.”

But it was too late. Luke had already gotten too involved to turn back. He'd destroyed the Death Star and been given a medal by Princess Leia, in a ceremony that Darth Vader had obviously known about. He was marked, now, in the sights of Vader and his master, and he would either die a Jedi, or he would live as a puppet of darkness.

Galen's heart hurt for him, with a deep ache that surprised him. He never allowed anyone close to him, never let down his guard or lowered his defenses, and here he was, hurting and wanting to protect some backwards farm boy.

Some backwards farm boy with an infectious laugh, and pretty smile, and lovely, bright, blue eyes.

He was smoothing Luke's hair from his forehead.

_Shit._

“You should have gone to Dagobah,” Galen said, pulling his hand from Luke's brow and curling his fingers against his palm. “Master Yoda could have prepared you better.”

Could he have? There was a reason Yoda was the last Jedi alive, and a reason he had secluded himself in some miserable, fetid swamp. The Empire was too strong, _Darth Vader_ was too strong, and even Master Yoda remained unable to push back the tide of darkness.

What hope did he have? What hope did _Luke_ have, if even the greatest Jedi was too weak?

_It doesn't take a Jedi_ , a voice at the back of his head reminded him. _It only takes the Force. Light and darkness are only words. The Force is a tool./em >_

_“We change the Force,” Galen whispered. “And the Force changes us.”_

_He knew, then, what he needed to do. Galen had trained Luke's body and mind, but he'd neglected to train the piece of him that mattered most: his attunement and connection to the Force. It was a living entity, entwined around all of them, and it deserved the same respect as brain and muscle._

_Leaving Luke to his dreams, Galen prepared Luke's next lesson._

_****_

_“I don't understand,” Luke said, for what must have been the hundredth time. “You want me to do _what_?”_

_“Touch my mind,” Galen said, teeth gritted around the words as his patience dwindled. “Use the Force to touch my mind. Feel my thoughts.”_

__Know me_ , Galen thought, and the words stirred something in him; some deep, desperate hunger that _hurt_. _

_“Okay,” Luke said, dubiously. He closed his eyes, as Galen did the same, meditating in the center of their cramped hut, with nothing between them but the space of a few feet. If he'd wanted to, he could have reached out and touched Luke, felt him with his fingertips, but that wasn't the _point_. The _point_ was exercising his connection to the Force, the _point_ was clearing his mind of all of his clutter; fear and doubt and sadness and longing. The _point_ was refocusing him on nothing except the Force, and his own tether that bound him to it._

_“Okay,” Luke said. “Okay. Using the Force. Using the Force.” He cracked an eye open. “Can I chant or something? Is there a trick to it?”_

_“No talking,” Galen instructed, fighting the urge to smile._

_“Right, okay,” Luke said, and Galen almost chastised him, but he fell silent._

_There was no telling how long they sat there in silence, both of them doing their best to clear their minds and let the Force flow through them. It might have been a minute, or an hour, or _ten_ ; time didn't seem to exist there between them._

_Something stirred, at the edges of his thoughts. Easy enough to ignore, at first, but it persisted, creeping along the perimeter of his mind, edging closer. At first, Galen thought it was his own disordered thoughts, threatening to undo his concentration, but then he _felt_ Luke, felt him searching in the darkness._

__Yes!_ Galen shouted in his mind. _You're close. I can feel you.__

_It was the most intimate moment of his life, as he and Luke shared a train of consciousness, as they existed, however briefly, in one mind. And he understood, then, how the Force could change people, could mold and reshape them. It wasn't always for the worse, as it had done to countless people who had fallen to the dark side; sometimes it simply softened edges._

_Sometimes it knocked down walls._

_Their eyes opened, together, and for a long moment, they said nothing, and they didn't move a muscle._

__Know me_ , Galen's heart seemed to cry out._

__I know you_ , Luke's heart answered, and in that moment, Galen felt for the first time that he existed as _himself_. Not a failed copy, or a defect, or something derivative, but _himself.__

_He wanted very badly to kiss Luke, to let the feeling between them exist forever, but it broke when _Luke_ broke into a ridiculous grin and reached across the small space between them to hug Galen tightly. _

_“That was amazing,” Luke said, and Galen could feel him trembling with adrenaline and excitement. “I mean, I knew the Force was powerful but--- Wow! That was something.”_

_Galen hugged him back, breathing in the smell of him as he pressed his nose into Luke's hair._

__Yes_ , he agreed, silently, _safely_ now that their connection was broken. _

__That was something._ _


	6. Good As Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling Han and Leia through the Force, and sensing their fear and pain, Luke leaves Rishi to find and save his friends.

Something wasn’t right.

Leia had learned a long time ago to always trust her instincts, and she’d thought that Han had learned the same after spending his entire life thieving and smuggling and skirting the law. But he assured her, for the thousandth time, that they could trust Lando Calrissian, that he was an old friend, a _good_ friend; and, considering Han had precious few friends that he placed his trust in, Leia ignored the warning bells that blared deep in her gut. 

Besides, it wasn’t like they had very many options open to them. The Empire was hunting them, every planet within jumping distance was Imperial, and they weren’t exactly traveling in an inconspicuous ship. Leia didn’t know how one man could make so many enemies, but Han seemed to have a talent for getting on everyone’s bad side. 

Still, she managed to relax when they were alone, when Han was holding her face in his hands and kissing the tip of her nose before moving to her lips. All the time she’d been wanting to kiss him, she’d thought he might kiss like a hungry animal, all teeth and tongue and heat; but he was wonderfully, wondrously _soft_ , asking permission with the press of his lips to the corner of her mouth. 

She loved him, as earnestly and deeply as she’d ever loved anyone, and it hurt her to think that he might only be passing time with her. Smugglers didn’t have a good track record for being solid, dependable lovers, and even if Han had stayed for the Rebellion, it didn’t mean that he’d stayed for _her_. 

“Any word yet?” Han asked.

Leia shook her head, rubbing at her eyes and sighing as she pulled her knees up to her face and rested against them. No, there wasn’t any word from Luke, there was no indication that he was coming to find them, that his training was complete, or even that he was still _alive_. For all she knew, Galen Marek had killed him in his sleep, and tossed him into the murky waters of Rishi. No man who had been shaped by Darth Vader could ever be trusted; he might as well have had Darth Vader’s blood pumping through his veins. 

And anyone who shared such a connection with Vader, only deserved a quick death. 

“I’m sure he’s okay,” Han said, but he sounded about as sure as a man playing sabacc with a cheating Hutt. “He has to be, right?”

No, he didn’t have to be.

The galaxy took and it took and it took, and it cared very little for who it hurt or who it killed or who it left behind. Leia had watched her entire planet destroyed right in front of her -- in a blink of an eye everything that she had ever known and loved was simply _gone_ \-- so why should Luke be any different? Why did he have to be okay?

“I don’t know,” Leia said, and she didn’t know she was crying until Han was kneeling in front of her clearing tears from her face with the heels of his thumbs. “I don’t know,” she repeated, hiccuping around her tears. When Han pulled her into his arms, she went gratefully, clinging to him as though he was the last safe, solid thing in her life.

Maybe he was. 

****

He was being followed. 

Luke knew that he was being tracked, stalked like some witless, helpless animal, and it made him _angry_ more than anything. After more than three months of training, he had honed himself into more of a weapon than the lightsaber at his hip, yet still he had to deal with people seeing him as nothing more than some little boy playing games. 

As he turned sharply around a corner, he felt the person tracking him do the same, and he pinned them against the wall with the crackle of his lightsaber close to their throat. 

A woman stared at him, with no fear in her eyes, her face stubbornly held high as electric light flickered over her pulse. Luke noticed two things about her; the first, that she had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, bright and unflinching, and the second, that she was most definitely not a threat to him. Not because she couldn’t defend herself, or prove to be a wily and dangerous threat, but because she didn’t _want_ any trouble with him. The shape of her body was relaxed, yielding, and she made no move to grab at him or shove him away.

“ _What_?” Luke demanded, as he pushed away from her and returned his lightsaber to his hip. 

“You’re being trained by Galen Marek,” the woman said, and at the mention of his name, Luke once more became on guard, hand curled around the hilt of his saber. Was she some assassin of Darth Vader’s, sent to kill Galen? Was she some Imperial soldier, sent to collect information on Galen and report back?

“And?” Luke asked, guarded and defensive and suddenly wishing he’d kept his lightsaber engaged. 

“I only... I wanted to know how he was,” she said, her voice softening, and with it, Luke’s posture also softened. No, she hadn’t come to hurt Galen. Luke could see by the look on her face that she loved him, painfully and deeply, and it hurt him to see. 

“He’s...” 

_Fine_ , Luke meant to say. But Galen was definitely not fine, and Luke doubted very much that he ever had been, or ever would be. He was a man who carried about scars -- on his body and heart and mind -- and no matter how far he ran or how much he hid himself, they remained. Darth Vader didn’t simply deal in destruction and mayhem; sometimes the most evil, insidious thing he did was to strip someone of their personhood, of the very thing that made them human.

Sometimes, he simply exhausted a person’s heart and soul, and left them withered and fragile. 

“...Doing as well as he can,” Luke said, because that seemed closer to the truth, at least. 

“He doesn’t tell me things,” the woman said. “I think he blames himself for---” She stopped herself, worrying her lower lip with her teeth, before she amended: “I think he feels like a lie.”

Her words were strange. Why should Galen feel like a lie? What could he possibly blame himself for? Darth Vader had made him his apprentice, and Galen had run as fast and as far as he could. Any reasonable person would have done the same, and wouldn’t have carried any blame or guilt over what the monster had done to the galaxy. 

“Who are you?” Luke asked.

“Juno,” the woman said, and beyond that, she revealed nothing else about herself. “You should be careful with him,” she said, after silence settled uncomfortably between them. All Luke could hear was Leia telling him the same thing, cautioning him that he shouldn’t trust Galen, that he shouldn’t let down his guard and let him get too close, and he prepared himself for some grand speech about how Galen was dangerous and not to be trusted. 

Instead, Juno continued: “He’s been hurt enough.”

_Oh._

She was worried _about_ Galen. 

Luke flushed. “Why should I be careful?” He asked. “He’s training me, that’s all.”

His words were hollow, and he knew that. When he looked back to Juno, she was smiling, almost smugly, and he hated her for that. 

“He deserves to be happy,” Juno said. “I’m only sorry he couldn’t be happy with me.”

Luke didn’t know what to say to that, but luckily, Juno continued before he could form some kind of pathetic apology. 

“If you hurt him, I’ll kill you,” she said. 

Luke believed her. 

****

_I think he feels like a lie._

Luke watched Galen carefully, taking stock of his movements and his mannerisms; even studying closely the way his hair fell into his eyes and he absently brushed it away. Everything he did seemed to be open for study, now, after what Juno had cryptically said. 

Why should he feel like a lie? 

What did that even _mean_? A _person_ couldn't be a lie. 

He must have been staring openly, because Galen was looking at him sharply when he shook himself out of his daydreaming. 

“ _What_ are you looking at?” Galen demanded. “You've been staring at me for the last hour.”

He almost told him, about Juno, about what she'd said, but he stopped himself. If Juno had wanted Galen to know she was there, she wouldn't have gone to the trouble of stalking after Luke to find out how he was doing. Obviously she didn't want Galen to know she was there, and Luke didn't particularly want to bluntly ask him why he thought of himself as a lie.

“Lost in thought, I guess,” Luke said. “Sorry.”

Galen didn't believe him, but he let the matter drop when Luke moved his stare somewhere else. 

It seemed like another lifetime that they had been so intimately linked through the Force. There was a yawning distance between them now, that seemed to _ache_ , and Luke hated that he felt so dependent on Galen’s presence after such a short time together. He didn't know how to bridge the gap between them, how to ask Galen the questions he wanted to ask, how to give Galen the trust in him to give him the answers he wanted to give him. 

Daydreaming again, Luke didn't notice Galen drawing closer to him. He only realized how near he was when Galen reached out and stroked along his cheek with the backs of his knuckles. 

Luke _jumped_ , as though he'd been struck, which was the absolute worst thing he could have done judging by how quickly Galen snatched his hand back. He fumbled an apology, quick and soft, and moved to put space between them. 

_He deserves to be happy._

Luke caught Galen by the wrist, fingers tight enough to let Galen know he wanted him to stay, not so tight that he couldn't shake Luke off if he wanted. 

“Galen,” Luke said, and his name was a soft sigh. He saw Galen flinch, as though his own name hurt him, but it passed, and he looked at Luke with his pale eyes full of something sharper and hungrier than Luke had ever seen. 

Want. Need. _Yearning._

Galen wanted to be known, to be seen and touched and _understood_. Luke didn't know why he felt like a lie, why he believed himself to be an imposter in his own body, and he didn't precisely care, beyond wanting to make it better. 

“Galen,” he repeated, with more insistence, his voice a little more hoarse. 

The space between them was shrinking. Galen leaned in close enough for Luke to feel his breath on his lips, tickling over his philtrum, ghosting across his chin. He closed his eyes, expectantly, closing the last few centimeters to touch their lips together---

And that was when he felt it, just an inkling, a little ripple at the edge of his thoughts -- at first. But soon, it was a feeling of dread, writhing through him, cold tendrils winding through his chest and down into his belly. His first instinct was to ignore it, to push it aside and just kiss Galen and stop all this damned _waiting_. But Galen had taught him to search his feelings, to _trust_ them, and to trust in the Force, and whatever he was feeling was akin to the Force screaming out in pain and alarm, as it had done when Alderaan had been destroyed.

And, even stronger than the Force, he could feel _Leia_. Scared, _hurt._

“No,” Luke gasped, and he could feel Galen pause, could nearly feel the _want_ in him, like a buzzing under his skin. “No.”

“Okay,” Galen said, easing, soothing, even if he was obviously hurt. “It's okay.”

“Not that,” Luke said, flushed, still so charged with adrenaline and plain, earnest want of him that it made his head swim. “I just--my friends---”

“What?” Galen asked.

By the time Luke explained what he felt, he was heading towards the door, with no clear idea of where he was going or how, precisely, he was going to get there. Galen snagged him by his waist, pulling him back and turning him around. It might have been intimate, even sensual, if he didn't grip Luke’s shoulders and shake him.

“Stop and _think,_ ” Galen said. “You know you'll be walking into a trap.”

“They _need_ me,” Luke argued, petulantly. 

“All you're going to do is get yourself killed,” Galen warned him. “What good will that do them, huh? What good will that do _anyone_? If you go after them, you'll die. And I'm not being an ass,” Galen chided, when Luke flushed with obvious anger. “This isn't a critique of your skill, this is the _truth_ of what'll happen to you if you go chasing after your friends.”

“I love them,” Luke said, boldly, without a hint of doubt or pretense. It was the first moment that Galen truly believed he could be a Jedi; there was something so honestly, deeply, compellingly _good_ about him. Luke was the most unselfish person he'd ever known. It hurt to know it would be what killed him.

In a kinder universe, it would have served him well.

“You won't listen to reason,” Galen said.

“I never have before,” Luke said, smiling a little. 

“I'll come with you,” Galen said, even knowing before the words were out of his mouth that Luke would tell him no. 

“I don't want you endangering yourself for me,” Luke said. “You're safe here. The Empire can't find you. If you come with me---”

Galen almost told him that didn't matter, that he _wanted_ to come with him and it didn't matter if he had to stand against Darth Vader himself. But there was something too vulnerable in that, something like opening up his chest and letting Luke reach inside of him. 

He _wanted_ him to stay. He _wanted_ to go with him. And that scared him.

Luke was going to die.

And that scared him more.

“Let me find you a ship, at least,” Galen offered, knowing it wasn't enough, knowing he could never say exactly what he _wanted_ to say.

Luke hugged him. And _stars_ , he was soft and yielding and _good._

_Stars_ , Galen wanted him. 

But he pulled away.

And Luke was gone.


	7. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Separated by lightyears, Galen and Luke remain drawn into one another's orbit, sharing dreams.

_Rishi, 3ABY_

_Nine months._

_Two hundred and seventy-four days._

_Sixty-five hundred minutes._

No matter how Galen thought of it, it seemed a terribly long time to go without someone. Worse, still, when you had no idea if the person you were waiting for was even _alive_. 

Mon Mothma was the one to give Galen some kind of peace, after his fiftieth frantic call to her. 

“He's alive,” she said, and funny, Galen hadn't known he'd been holding his breath until her words broke over him and he exhaled sharply. Relief coursed through him, but beneath it, cold and bitter, was the feeling of being abandoned. Why hadn't Luke contacted him to let him know he was okay? Why hadn't he come back to Rishi? 

Had their time together really meant so little to him? 

“Then Darth Vader is---”

“Still alive,” Mon Mothma said, her voice weary and frayed at the edges. She hadn't been sleeping well, Galen could tell. He could imagine she had an entire restless Rebellion to contend with, who wanted to mount Darth Vader’s head on a pike. “It's... complicated.”

Galen knew the lingo well enough to know ‘ _complicated_ ’ meant it was information she couldn't share with him. And that stung, even if he understood. 

_You're not a part of the Rebellion_ , a cold voice whispered. _You're a coward in hiding._

“Where is Luke?” Galen asked, and he saw Mon Mothma’s features harden. He reminded himself that despite her role in the Rebellion, she was a politician, and stymied by protocol; or, perhaps, she enjoyed putting up red tape. Again, he understood, but that didn't mean he had to _like it._

“That's classified information,” she said. “I'm sure you understand. Even if I was sure this channel was secure, well...”

_I couldn't trust you._

She had trusted him enough to send Luke to him, to place the last hope of the galaxy in his hands, but she couldn't manage to trust him _now?_

Of course not. Before, she hadn't been sure of Luke's importance, but now he was the poster child for her Rebellion. He was proof that someone could stand before Darth Vader and make it out alive. After all, she was a politician, and every politician loved a good inspirational story. 

He wasn't being fair, but he didn't particularly care. 

“This is bullshit,” Galen said. Mon Mothma bristled, her lips pursing. _Good_. He hoped he ruined her whole week, or at least a good portion of her day. “And you _know_ it's bullshit.”

“You're not a part of this Rebellion,” Mon Mothma said, her voice cool and clipped. Every word was like the slice of a knife, quick and painful. “You never have been. You made it quite clear that you wanted no part of... What did you call it? Our ‘ _delusional games_ ’? So please do spare me the haughty attitude, _Marek_.”

Anger seemed to be the only emotion he was comfortable expressing, because it flared, suddenly, as he sputtered on his words and growled in frustration.

“You made a choice, to lick your wounds like a little puppy and _hide_ ,” Mon Mothma said. “Let's not play games with each other. I'm a busy woman.”

Galen fumed and tried to shout over her, but Mon Mothma ended the call. When he tried to get her back, he found that his signal had been blocked. A very polite droid informed him that his signal had been deemed ‘suspicious’, and if he felt the designation was unfair, he had several avenues available to contest.

“Kriffing useless pile of _scrap,_ ” Galen growled, cutting off the droid’s spiel. 

His whole body thrummed with anger, down to his bones, and for a little while, all he could do was sit there, trembling with fury. Beneath the rage, there was shame, that he was still what Darth Vader had made him to be. Still angry, still volatile, still _Sith_ , in many ways. 

The anger abated, ebbed away like the tide, and left him feeling shaky and drained. All he wanted to know was why Luke hadn't returned. All he wanted was to see him again and tell him---

_What?_

That was the problem. Galen had no idea what he wanted to say to Luke, or why he had such a compulsion to see him again. It was in his best interest to stay as detached as he possibly could, to erect a barrier between himself and the rest of the galaxy. And so why should one boy have made such an impact on him? 

Why did he miss him so badly it hurt him? 

All he could think of was the day Luke had left Rishi; how close he had been to kissing him. Galen could recall how every atom in his body had become charged, how each molecule had cried out for Luke to touch him, to kiss him, to stay. It wasn't merely an attraction -- Galen could handle attraction, and want, and _lust_ \-- it was something akin to a _craving._

Stars, sometimes he wished Luke had never come to Rishi. 

****

Sometimes, Luke dreamed of Rishi. 

No, not Rishi. 

_Galen._

He dreamed of him the way a man dying of thirst might dream of water. _Desperately_ , in such deep want of him that it ached in his bones. In the dreams, Galen would kiss him, like he'd meant to the day Luke had left for Cloud City. And his kiss was deep and hot and _electric_ , sending shivers all through his body and alighting on his spine. 

In the dream, it was never enough. Luke would kiss him until his mouth was bruised and sore, he would hold him until his arms were numb, he would pull him so close there was no telling where he ended and Galen began; but he wanted _more._

Always, he awoke from the dreams hard, excited, _flushed_. And _miserable._

Because he could never go back to Rishi. 

He could never tell Galen the truth. 

If he knew that Luke was the son of Darth Vader, that he had his blood in his veins -- the blood of the man who had tormented him -- Galen would look on him with such disgust and hate that it would carve him hollow. It had been difficult enough for Luke to rationalize and accept that Darth Vader was his father, he couldn't imagine what it would make Galen feel. 

And so he stayed away from him. Even though it hurt him, even though it made his heart and his soul _ache_ , Luke stayed away. He told himself that it was for the best, that Juno had been right, that Galen deserved to be happy. He told himself that he could never be happy with the son of Darth Vader. 

It became easier to distract himself as the months passed. There were rescues to be staged and victories to be won. But always, inevitably, he would be returned to his solitude, and he would find Galen in his dreams.

Sometimes they didn't even feel like dreams at all. They felt eerily similar to when he and Galen had touched one another's minds, and while Luke found the idea preposterous, he seized onto the hope that Galen could feel his thoughts, that he could know just how badly Luke missed him. 

But dreams were dreams, and Galen remained only a memory. As the months went on, Luke found himself forgetting how his voice sounded when he teased him, and how beautifully unique his eyes were, and the idea that one day Galen might be nothing more than a nostalgic pang deep in his chest hurt him. 

_Know me_ , Galen had begged with his eyes. For a short time, Luke _had_ known him, and cared for him, maybe even _loved_ him.

And now there was nothing except the shadow of Galen over his heart.

****

The dreams were... intriguing, to say the least. 

Usually Galen’s dreams were dark and bloody, haunted by Darth Vader and his own feelings of fraud. But these dreams were... erotic, sensual, _carnal_. In them, he would kiss Luke, as he'd meant to on the day he'd left, but after that, things became hazy and warm. 

Sometimes, Luke would ease him back, would work his hands and mouth over him until Galen was shuddering with release; and then, other times, _Galen_ would ease _Luke_ back, would stare into his deep blue eyes as he moved inside of him. 

He awoke from the dreams sweating, panting, _hard_. Sometimes it would be too much for him to stand, and he would tear off his clothes in frustration and stroke himself frantically until he came over his hand. 

_Primal want_ was nothing new for him. He'd wanted plenty of people through his rather short existence, and he'd had no qualms about his sexuality and his desire. But this was different. This was a need that didn't just exist below his belt. 

This was a need that vibrated through his chest, and made his soul _hungry_. 

And the dreams that came to him, sometimes, weren't nearly as lascivious. Sometimes, he only sat with Luke, holding his hand, as he brushed his hair behind his ear and Luke nuzzled against his palm. 

And _those_ dreams hurt. 

Because they ended, and he awoke in his best with no soft-eyed boy beside him. The smell of him was gone. The shape of his body in his bed. The sound of his laughter. 

Everything was gone, and Galen didn't understand _why_. 

_Why_ wouldn't he come back?

 _What_ had happened between him and Darth Vader? 

_Why_ when Galen went searching for him in the Force, did Luke hide from him? 

And, most painful of all: 

_How_ was he supposed to let go of him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angstangstangst ;3;


	8. There Is Only The Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowing that he can never leave him behind, Luke finds Galen in the Force, and Galen comes to a decision.

Leia fought him, as she was wont to do on _any_ topic of conversation -- but on the truth of her parentage, she _raged_ , refusing to believe that she could be the daughter of Darth Vader. Even when Luke provided her with irrefutable proof, even when he explained to her that there was no doubt that Darth Vader had spoken the truth, Leia resisted. Luke had never seen her so angry, or so distressed; she paced the room with her fingers pulling at her hair, speaking in circles to herself, yelling at _him_ that he was _wrong_ , and _cruel_ , and _monstrous_. 

Darth Vader was the monster that had tortured her, the one who had stood there, holding her in his cruel grip as she watched her planet destroyed. Her _father_ had died on Alderaan, with Rebellion in his heart, with hope in his eyes. Bail Organa had loved her, loved her deeper and truer than anyone in the whole galaxy, and he was _dead_ because of Darth Vader and the Empire he fought for. He was no father of _hers_ , and no amount of talking would change her mind on the subject. Usually, she could be reasoned with, her anger and her indignation could be soothed and quieted, but on this, she remained resolute: Darth Vader was nothing more than a soulless monster, and she would never, _ever_ see him as anything else.

Luke didn’t argue with her. She had every right to be hurt, to be confused, and angry, and _overwhelmed_. Stars knew that was how he’d felt when he’d discovered the truth, and though he had processed it, and now believed Darth Vader -- Anakin Skywalker -- could be returned to the light, he didn’t impose his belief on her. Though she was his sister -- his _sister,_ and despite the pain and anger that lurked as a minefield before him, the idea thrilled him -- his _twin_ , the similarities ended there. There was stubborn pride in her, and jagged edges, and fury hot enough to melt the ice caps of Hoth; and that was fine, that was _Leia._

She didn’t need to agree with him to be right.

She didn’t need to be like him to be allowed her feelings. 

On the matter of Darth Vader, Leia ended the discussion, but she seemed as excited to find out about their relation as Luke had been. Sometimes, when she held his hands and leaned in close to press her lips to his cheek, he would see Han watching them darkly, with jealousy twisting his features. Funny, he’d thought Leia would tell him immediately that they were siblings. Funny, too, that Luke didn’t know _quite_ who Han was jealous _of_ , and judging by his face, he doubted that even Han knew entirely. 

There was distraction in being with them. Distraction in observing the Rebellion, and in losing himself in planning and preparation. After his decision not to return to Rishi, or have any contact with Galen, distraction was exactly what he needed. Luke buried himself in his work, in his training, in his meditation and his focus. But still, his mind would drift to Galen, would worry over what he was doing, _how_ he was doing, if he even missed him at all or noticed that he was gone.

And, whenever his mind drifted, he would think on just what might have happened their last night together, if he hadn’t taken off. His dreams remained erotic and wild and passionate, but his _daydreams_ were something altogether softer and innocent; he would imagine Galen’s hands cupping his face, his palms rough and his knuckles coarse, but his touch gentle. He would imagine Galen kissing him, slowly, deeply, methodically, every inch of his face, until Luke was laughing and Galen was breathing in his laughter as he covered his mouth with his own. 

The thoughts made his soul _yearn_. 

But he was a Jedi, like his father before him, and he knew that such desires had to be pushed aside. He had a destiny, out there in the stars, and that destiny couldn’t include Galen Marek. They had entered one another’s orbit, however briefly, and now it was done, and it was over, and it was _through_. Luke had to focus on the Rebellion, on the war with the Empire, on the fate of his father and the shadowy master behind him. 

“If you love him, you should be with him,” Leia said, suddenly, drawing Luke out of his daydreams. She was as tactful as a bantha in a pottery store, but she said what she meant, and meant what she said. There was something beautiful in her open honesty, even if it raised his hackles a little. 

“What?” Luke asked. 

“If you love him, you should be with him,” Leia repeated, taking a seat beside him and holding his stare evenly. She would never flinch away from conflict, or confrontation, and even the most awkward and uncomfortable situation never made Leia bat an eye. If he hadn’t known her so well, he would have believed it was the politician in her; but he knew it was their mother in her, stubborn and prideful and too protective for her own good. “What good does it do you to be here mooning over him like a little boy?”

“I’m _not_ mooning over _anyone_ ,” Luke said. “And stop calling me a little boy.”

“Stop _acting_ like a little boy,” Leia challenged. “And I will.”

“Right, it’s so immature of me, putting the galaxy and the Rebellion ahead of what I want---”

“Nerfshit,” Leia interrupted. She was smiling, and he _hated_ when she got so smug. “You’re not doing anything noble. You’re running away because you fell in love with him and you don’t know what to do about it.”

He flushed, more in embarrassment than anger, and looked away from her. Every time he opened his mouth to rebuke her, he shut it quickly, chewing at his lower lip. She was _right_ , and he hated _that_ too. He hated that she could cut to the quick so easily, that she could so thoughtlessly and carelessly expose him and everything he felt. 

“I told you not to trust him,” Leia said. “And you went and fell in love with him.”

Luke looked up, a little meek behind the fall of his hair. “He’s not who you think he is.”

“What is it with you?” Leia asked, her voice a little softer. “Why do you believe in the best in everyone?”

_Light and dark are just words._

_We change the Force, and the Force changes us._

“Everyone can change,” Luke said. “You have to give them the chance. You have to believe in them, or maybe... maybe they can’t believe in themselves, enough? Maybe they need someone to tell them they’re worth something.”

“Is he?” Leia asked. “Worth something?”

Luke thought of how Galen’s eyes had looked so hungry as he’d leaned down close to him. He thought of how he had felt him through the Force, and how lonely he had seemed, how desperate for something kind and patient. And he thought of how Galen had held his waist and begged him not to go, how he had been scared for him. 

And how he had offered to walk into danger with him, if only to stand beside him. 

“He’s worth everything,” Luke said.

****

Someone was with him.

Fear struck like a chord, sharply, through him. The last time Galen had been alone in the dark, with someone lurking in the shadows, he had watched with rain and tears in his eyes as Darth Vader had turned the blackness red with blood. 

Reacting first without thinking, Galen unfocused himself, pulling away from the flow of the Force. He receded to the edges, prepared himself for the cold grip of unseen fingers around his throat. It didn't matter that Darth Vader couldn't possibly know where he was, or that, even if he had tracked him through the Force, that he was powerful enough to end Galen’s life over such a great distance. But rationality no longer had any purchase in his mind; he existed somewhere deeper, something primal and primitive and _frightened._

This was what Darth Vader had done to him. This was what Darth Vader had done to the entire galaxy. Fear was a path to the dark side, but it was also a _weapon_ of the dark side, something wielded to subjugate and make the whole universe submit. Galen hated that he behaved as a child, jumping at shadows, but his only instinct now was survival.

The feeling was... _familiar._

_Gentle._

Hesitantly, Galen reached out, refocusing himself and letting the Force flow around him like a fast moving river. He was terrified he would be swept away, that Darth Vader would appear as a looming shadow and crush his windpipe like paper in his hand -- but the sense of familiarity, of comfort, persisted, and the dark thoughts soon left him.

Galen knew, then, who was there with him. His heart cried out for him, even as he told himself he couldn't reach out to him, he couldn't expose himself so much. Luke had gone, after all, and he hadn’t come back. There was a reason he had stayed gone, and a reason he had kept himself hidden. 

There was a reason it had been almost a year since Galen had seen him.

But his heart kept aching for him, and Galen couldn't help but tentatively reach for him. 

Like their connection before, it was the most intimate moment of Galen’s life. For a brief moment, he and Luke were of one body, one mind, one _soul._ He knew all of Luke's imperfections -- his stubbornness and his fear and his insecurity -- and _stars_ , he loved him. He loved _all_ of him, every inch and atom, and he could feel that Luke loved him back, with the heat and intensity of the twin suns of Tatooine. 

_Know me_ , Galen whispered through the Force, and the response was immediate and intense and immense in its warmth and affection.

_I know you._

_I love you._

Tears burned his eyes, and ran hot down his face. But all Galen could feel was Luke, there in the flow of the Force with him. All he knew was Luke, there in the dark with him, reaching for him. And for the first time in a very long time, Galen felt _safe_ in the dark.

The distance between them was too wide, because their connection soon became impossible to keep. But even as his eyes opened to his empty room, he could feel Luke, as though he was there with him, his arms draped around Galen s shoulders. 

For a split second, he debated whether he should leave the safety of Rishi for the unknown depths of space; but as he thought of Luke, out there fighting and struggling and _trying_ , he couldn't keep sitting still.

He would go out into the blackness, despite his fear, despite the fact that Darth Vader might come for him.

He thought of Luke, and his heart and soul were forged of steel.

_Let him come._


	9. No Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After almost a year apart, Galen and Luke find themselves lost to passion when they finally see one another again.

No words.

Galen didn't trust himself to speak. He barely trusted himself to _walk_ when he entered the room and Luke rose to meet him. After so long spent dreaming of him, Galen feared that if he even blinked, Luke would disappear. 

It was such a strange moment to be in. He was caught in limbo, in the midst of badly, _desperately_ wanting to move forward, and being unable to move, unwilling to close the short space between them. If he moved to Luke, it would be an admission; of want, of need, of something so vulnerable and exposed it made Galen tremble to think of it. And so what if he had crossed the stars? So what if he had taken to a ship and flown across the black expanse of space only to be with him? Crossing space had been simple. 

Crossing the room to let Luke look into his eyes and see what he’d done to him was _impossible_. 

Lucky for him, Luke was as openly and sweetly earnest in his affection for him as he was in all things. He moved to where Galen stood and took his hands, pulling him further into the room. Galen didn't want to look in his eyes, or rather, didn't want _Luke_ to look into _his_ , but Luke wouldn't allow him to look away. He cupped Galen’s face, tipped his chin down, and looked up at him with the most unselfish love Galen had ever seen.

After that, what could Galen do? He had to kiss him. It was a burning, pressing need. 

His hand moved to the small of Luke's back, pulling him up against his body. He felt a shiver love through him, of excitement and anticipation, and it made goosebumps spread over his skin. The moment before their lips touched, Galen embarrassed himself with a small, needful moan, but it was muffled by Luke's mouth an instant later. 

Galen had no idea _how_ they managed to find their way to the bed, but when he opened his eyes they were laid across it, with Luke underneath him. When their kiss broke, Galen gasped for breath, as Luke kissed and nuzzled at his throat.

Everything was happening so fast. Galen wondered if they should slow down, if they should have taken their time, if they should have reflected on everything that had happened and everything that was at stake there between them.

But Luke took hold of him, through his pants, and all logic was lost. He was a primal, primitive _thing_ then, all pounding blood and instinct, and he saw that Luke liked it. He liked having his arms pinned down against the mattress, he liked when Galen ground his hips down against him. He especially liked the way Galen sucked on his earlobe, and bit his way down to his collarbone. 

They didn't need words. What they needed was right there between them. Heat, electricity, raw and aimless passion. What they needed was to be skin to skin, to be as much of one body as they'd been through the Force. 

When Galen moved inside of him, it was like being _complete_ for the first time. He watched Luke's eyes flutter, watched his teeth catch his lower lip, and he _felt_ that it was the same for him. He held onto Galen, his nails scratching down his back, his legs locked around his waist. Luke threw his head back, and his blond hair was dark with sweat, his blue eyes dark with desire when he turned them up to Galen. 

_Stars_ , he was like space. So deep, so endless. Galen didn't even know if he could breathe around him, if enough oxygen existed when Luke was close to him. 

And it didn't matter. His head spinning, his lungs shuddering, Galen came, his cries muffled against Luke's throat. When he collapsed against him, shaking and sweaty and panting, the skin between them was warm and sticky with Luke's own orgasm. 

Galen smiled, sleepily, pressing a kiss over the pulse at Luke's throat. It jumped under his lips, his blood pumping hard and hot. 

Neither of them wanted to move, but they made their way to the refresher, sliding under the hot water together. They found each other again with the steam building around them, and by the time they made it back to bed, they were both too exhausted to do anything more than collapse in each other's arms. 

They fell asleep, tangled around one another.

****

He had to tell him. 

Luke had meant to tell him, he really had. He'd prepared himself for the moment Galen entered his room. But then, everything had gotten hazy and Galen had been kissing him and they'd fallen into bed and---

Okay, so maybe he hasn't really _tried_ all that hard to tell him the truth. But it had been so long since Luke had seen him, and he'd been hurting for him, aching for him, in a way that had made it impossible to even _think straight_. What was he supposed to do when Galen entered his looking so devastatingly beautiful? 

_You used him_ , a dark voice whispered, and Luke rejected it vehemently. _No_ , he hadn’t. He might have been guilty of keeping a secret to himself, but he had _never_ used anyone in his life, least of all Galen.

He owed him the truth.

But it wasn't exactly an easy conversation to have, or an easy truth to admit. How did you turn over in bed and tell your lover that you were the son of the man who had tortured and tormented him for years? 

Luke supposed that was the only way to do it, really. He turned over, resting on his elbow, and found Galen watching with his eyes hooded sleepily, and the sweetest smile spread across his face. 

_I love him_ , Luke thought, smiling as he stroked Galen’s cheek with his knuckles. Smiling, even though he knew once Galen knew the truth, he would never speak to him again. 

“Galen,” Luke whispered, and his heart hurt when Galen nudged against his hand and pressed a kiss against his palm. “There's something... I mean, I should...” He sighed, circling his thumb over Galen’s lower lip. “There's something I need to tell you.”

He waited patiently, with such open, honest _trust_ that Luke almost couldn't bear to tell him the truth. Wouldn't it be better, for both of them, if he kept it to himself? What did it really matter, anyway? Nothing about his parentage changed who he was as a person, or what he and Galen had built together.

But Galen deserved the truth, and he deserved the freedom to do with it whatever he wished. If it proved to be what destroyed whatever was between them, at least Luke would know that he had done what was right. Darth Vader had tried to deny Galen his personhood, had tried to strip away his freedom.

Luke _wasn't_ his father.

“It _was_ a trap,” Luke began. “You were right about that. Darth Vader was waiting for me.”

He remembered the first time he'd seen him, up close, with nothing between them but the space of a few feet. Nothing had prepared him for the coldness that had radiated off of him; he had been told he was darkness itself, twisting and writhing, but not that he was frozen, that he was like night in the deepest part of winter. 

Galen sensed his fear from the memory, drawing Luke's hand back to his lips and kissing his palm again.

“We fought, and I... You were right, I wasn't ready. I didn't understand how powerful he was.”

“But you survived,” Galen said. “I was wrong to doubt you.”

Luke laughed, bitterly, wanting to tell Galen that the hand he held wasn't his own, that it was a mechanical _thing_ they had grafted onto him. _That_ was what his survival was. That and plummeting stars only knew how many feet and dangling out over the endless sky until Leia had rescued him. There was nothing heroic about his survival. 

But that wasn't what he needed to tell Galen.

“Darth Vader, he... told me something,” Luke said. “About my father.”

Galen sat up on his elbow, stroking his fingers down Luke's arm, soothingly. No doubt he believed Vader had killed his father, that he had exterminated him during his attack on the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. That was what Luke had believed. He had believed his father was a hero, a true Jedi, a defender of the Light. And instead he'd learned that he had betrayed the Order, had slaughtered them near to extinction. He was a monster, stained in the blood of _millions_. 

And, worse, Luke still believed he could be saved.

“Darth Vader, he... He's---”

Galen pulled him close, into his arms, and held him. Luke relished the feel of his skin against him, the smell of sweat and sex at the hollow of his throat. He breathed him in, closed his eyes and cherished the last time Galen would ever hold him close. 

“He's my father,” Luke said, muffled against Galen’s throat. But Galen heard him just fine. He stiffened, and Luke could feel goosebumps spread over his skin. 

Galen pulled back, and Luke prepared himself for the fear and hatred he would see in his eyes. 

But he only looked confused, bewildered, _disbelieving_. Luke nodded, not wanting to have an hour long argument as he'd had with Leia when he'd told her the truth. “Yes,” Luke said. “It's true. I wanted to tell you a long time ago, but I thought-- I thought it would be easier just to never see you again. I thought, maybe, that'd be kinder to you. But you deserve the truth, and I couldn't... I couldn't---”

He drew Galen’s hand to his cheek, and for a wonder, Galen didn't fight him. “I needed to see you,” Luke whispered. “I couldn't stay away.”

There was a boldness to him that he'd never felt before. And if this was going to be their last night together, Luke was going to tell him all the things he'd wanted to say in all the time they'd been apart. 

“I love you,” Luke said, and he tasted tears in his throat before he felt them on his face. “I'm sorry.”

He moved to leave the bed, to put some space between them before he put _all of space_ between them. It was better this way, he told himself. Better that he was honest, that he told Galen the truth and let whatever happened, happen. There would be no regrets, at least, no nagging guilt that he was using someone he loved so desperately. 

Galen caught his arm, pulled him back until Luke's back was flush against his chest. His arms wrapped around him, and Luke shivered when Galen kissed softly at the skin between his neck and shoulder. 

“It doesn't matter,” Galen said, and it felt like the whole universe became suddenly _brighter_. Some deep, clenched fist in his belly loosened, and Luke made some kind of noise between a sigh and sob when Galen hugged him tighter. “You're _you_ ,” Galen said. “It doesn't matter who made you.”

“I didn't know... I wasn't sure if you'd---”

“Who created you doesn't define you,” Galen said, and Luke could sense that there was more he wanted to say, that there was a truth he wanted to tell, but it wasn't the time, not then. Right then, Galen only wanted to hold him, and Luke only wanted to be held.

“Will you kill him?” Galen asked, after silence stretched between them. He'd asked Luke the question before, and Luke had answered that he didn't know. But now he _did_ know, and it had nothing to do with the revelation that Vader was his father. It had everything to do with who he was as a person. 

Darkness crept across the galaxy, insidious in its totality, and its _subtlety_. It could blanket everything and no one really noticed.

But it would never touch him. 

“No,” Luke said, steeling himself for a screed from Galen about how he was naive, childish, _wrong_. “I'll save him.”

Silence, almost interminable. But Galen kept holding him, and Luke guessed that was a good sign. 

“I've fallen in love with a Jedi,” Galen finally laughed, squeezing Luke tighter. “I guess I'm the one who's hopeless.”

Luke smiled, stroking Galen’s arms around his shoulders, watching the stars as they drifted by outside the safety of their room. 

That was all they really _had_ , actually. 

Hope. 

And each other.


	10. Chaos, Yet Harmony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galen and Luke stand together against Darth Vader, and his master, Darth Sidious.
> 
> All they have is hope, and one another.

“You can’t face him alone,” Galen said, giving Luke no room for argument. He hadn’t said that he wanted to face Darth Vader on his own, but Galen had felt him preparing for the debate, working himself up to telling Galen to stay behind while he went and got himself killed. The last time Luke had stood against Darth Vader, he’d lost a hand, and very nearly lost his life -- what would happen this time? Sooner or later his luck would run out, and Darth Vader wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. Luke being his son changed nothing; if Luke refused his master, he would kill him, with no qualms or reluctance.

Luke thought he could be saved, but Galen knew that there was no saving someone so lost in darkness. 

“I have to,” Luke said, not quite meeting Galen’s eyes. “I don’t want you to involve yourself any more than you already have. Right now, he doesn’t know where to find you, but if you come with me---”

The previous night, Luke had told him a truth that had been painful for him. He had told Galen, even though he’d been sure the weight of it would prove too much and he would send him away. That had taken immense courage, and Galen believed that he owed Luke the same open honesty. They would be standing against unspeakable evil together, only the two of them against a tidal wave of darkness, and Galen didn’t want any secrets between them. 

He didn’t want Luke to die not knowing the truth. 

“He doesn’t care about me,” Galen said, softly, taking Luke’s hands and caressing his thumbs over his knuckles. It was his turn, now, to hide his eyes, to not let Luke see the hurt and shame in them. “I’m nothing to him.”

“You were his apprentice---”

“No,” Galen said. There were tears, burning hot behind his eyes and at the back of his throat. When he blinked, they slipped down his face, and while they’d been hot in his eyes, they felt cold on his skin. “I’m not Galen Marek. Not... not the _real_ Galen Marek. I’m nothing but a failed copy of him.”

“I don’t understand,” Luke said, but Galen could tell that he _did_ understand, he just didn’t precisely _want_ to understand. 

Galen forced himself to look up, to meet Luke’s eyes evenly, and to hold them as he said: “I’m his clone. Galen Marek is dead.”

Silence met the admission, long and deep and terrifying. Luke didn’t jerk his hands away, or stand up to leave, which Galen considered to be a good sign, but still, the silence made him uneasy. He understood, of course. The information wasn’t easy to process and accept, and Luke deserved however much time he needed. 

No one knew the truth, other than Darth Vader and himself. Even Mon Mothma had been kept in the dark about Galen’s death and Vader’s dozens of clones. It had been in the best interest of the galaxy to keep the truth hidden, Galen told himself, but really, it had been in _his_ best interest. If no one knew that Galen Marek was dead, and that he was only a clone, only a failed mimicry, then he still maintained some clout. He could keep himself hidden and secret, with everyone terrified of betraying him and earning his scorn.

If they’d known he was merely a clone... 

His time on Rishi would have been short. 

He was crying harder, and he didn’t realize until Luke was hushing him and wiping his tears away with the heels of his thumbs. Why should he be so hurt? Why did it matter to him that Vader saw him as nothing more than a failed experiment, barely worth the effort of killing? Why did it matter that he had been created and then deemed worthless? And why did it matter that the man he loved wanted to save the monster that had made and then forsaken him?

“You’re wrong,” Luke whispered. “You _are_ Galen Marek.”

_No_ , he wanted to protest, he _wasn’t._ He shared his face, a handful of his memories, a strange aching in his heart for a woman he had never really known, but none of those things made him Galen. He was nothing but a failed experiment, a _mistake._

“We’re not the people who made us,” Luke said. “We’re who we _choose to be_. You’ve chosen to be here, with me, right now. And you’ve chosen to walk into darkness full of light, and that _matters._ ”

_The Force changes us, and we change the Force._

Yes, that was the truth. The Force had taken him, when no one else would have him. The Force had shaped him into something new, and in turn, he had shaped it around himself, as something unrecognizable to what Darth Vader had taught him. He wasn’t the man he had been shaped to be, and that _mattered._

Luke rested his forehead against Galen’s, their hands linked between them. Funny, Galen had thought that existing with him in the Force would be the most intimate moment of his life. But there, with Luke close to him, with their fingers intertwined and the rush of his breath tickling over his lips, he knew he’d been wrong. That moment, right then, was the first moment he truly felt connected to another person, somewhere deeper than his soul.

“I love you, Galen,” Luke whispered. 

The words were so sweet, so _good_ , that they nearly _hurt._

“I love you, too,” Galen said. And his name was a grateful sigh:

“Luke.”

****

Whatever happened, they had each other.

They had hope.

Galen repeated the words in his head, over and over, as they stood before Darth Vader. His master was perched on his throne behind him, wicked and sinister and more terrifying than Galen had ever imagined. This was the being that called himself Darth Sidious, the monster that had plunged the galaxy into cold darkness. And yet, Galen could do nothing but stare at Darth Vader as his lightsaber flashed bright, vibrant red against the blackness behind him. 

“Galen,” Darth Vader breathed. For a moment, Galen held hope in his heart that he would accept him, that he would make some plea for Galen to join him, as he had done for Luke. But, instead, Vader simply sneered: “My greatest failure.”

Luke took his hand, squeezing reassuringly, and nothing else mattered. He was more than what Darth Vader had tried to make him, and he was stronger than he’d been the last time they’d met in battle. He would show him, and his craven master, just what it truly meant to be one with the Force. Light and darkness blended inside of him, and he was stronger than either of them could have ever anticipated. The Force had changed him, as he had changed the Force. 

He would show them.

****

Blue and red sparked, blended briefly into a bright, dazzling purple-white. Galen staggered back, gritting his teeth and planting his feet firmly as Darth Vader pushed against him. Sweat built at his brow and temples, dripping into his eyes, and Galen blinked rapidly, keeping Darth Vader in his sights, refusing to give him even an inch of submission. 

He would die where he stood before he would let him get close to Luke. 

“You could have been my greatest achievement,” Vader taunted, pushing against Galen harder, with more insistence. “You could have reached heights unlike any you could ever imagine. But look at you now, standing here weak and broken.”

“I chose the light,” Galen said, and he closed his eyes, let the Force flow through him. He pushed outwards, with all of his strength, and he felt Vader stagger backwards as the Force slammed like steel against him. “I chose _him_ ,” Galen continued, his eyes flashing open. He swung at Vader, wildly, widely, sweeping his saber in an arc that caught Vader unprepared and sent him reeling, momentarily unbalanced. Galen advanced on him, swinging and thrusting and not giving Vader even a moment to catch his breath. 

And he realized, then, that the light and Luke were the same, and it fueled his strength, fueled his resolve. One more swing, and it would be the end. He would cleave Vader’s mask in two, slice through flesh and sinew and bone and end everything, _finally._

“Don’t,” Luke said, _begged_. “Please, Galen. Don’t kill him.”

Why shouldn’t he? Darth Vader was a plague that had afflicted the galaxy for decades, and he had to be purged for anything to ever be safe again. He had to be cut out for anything to ever heal. 

_We’re not the people who made us._

No, they were better. They were _more._

Galen stepped back and lowered his lightsaber. And that was when the lightning struck him, bright and blinding and brilliant, and more painful than anything Galen had ever felt before. It alit along his nerves, sparking between his muscles and bones, sinking like sharp, awful teeth into him. He fell to his knees, watching Darth Vader as he stood from the ground with the red of his lightsaber looming like some awful sun.

“Kill him,” his master sneered behind him, and Galen realized that it had been his lightning that had sent him trembling to his knees. He heard the shuffling of his steps as he arose from his throne and walked nearer. He was wizened, shriveled, more ancient than even the stars. And there was nothing in the black pits of his eyes except seething hatred. This was the greatest evil in the galaxy, the one that had killed the Republic and brought the Jedi to the brink of extinction.

The evil that had birthed Darth Vader. 

“Father, please,” Luke begged. He moved to where Galen knelt, and in a display of his naivete -- or, perhaps, his courage -- he got down on his knees beside him. “Please, don’t do this.”

Darth Sidious snickered, the sound so cold and devoid of humanity that it made cold shivers race up and down Galen’s spine. His gnarled fingers thrust outwards, sending lightning zig-zagging through the air and over their bodies. Luke screamed, huddling closer to him as the lightning arced between them. This was how they would die, on their knees together, in front of unspeakable and unimaginable darkness. 

Galen realized he had no regrets, even ending his life there on his knees. He loved Luke Skywalker, and he would follow him into darkness, into death, into whatever lay beyond, with only that love, and that solid belief, in his heart. 

_There is no death, there is only the Force._

“There is no death, there is only the Force,” Luke said, as though he’d read Galen’s thoughts. “Strike me down, and I will become more powerful than you can imagine. _I am a Jedi, like my father before me.”_

Darth Vader roared, and Galen prepared himself for the pierce of his lightsaber. But it never came. 

The lightning dissipated, faded around them, and Galen held Luke in his arms as he collapsed against him. He watched Darth Vader as he moved with the writhing body of his Emperor in his arms, over his head, towards the core shaft. The Emperor growled in rage, the noise something screeching and inhuman, twisting in Vader’s hands. With little ceremony, Darth Vader threw him down into the chasm, lightning sparking from the shaft and from the Emperor’s gnarled hands, exploding outwards. 

Galen threw his body over Luke’s and tackled him to the floor, the explosion sending burning debris over them, pelting Galen’s back as he covered Luke. 

Luke pushed him away, crawling onto his knees and then vaulting onto his feet and running in a stagger to where Darth Vader sat wounded against the destroyed core shaft. 

He looked... frail, _small_. His mask was ruined, and his face was pale and scarred and pitifully _human_. 

Was this the man who had terrorized the galaxy? Who had created and then tried to destroy him? 

“Father, please,” Luke sobbed. “We can--- We can help you. We can save you.”

“You’ve already saved me,” Vader said, and there was so much love and affection in his voice that Galen could only stare at him, in open disbelief, as he held Luke’s hands. “You’ve done more for me than you could ever know.”

“Father,” Luke whispered. “Please.”

“Tell your sister you were right about me,” Vader said, his voice fading, his fingers growing weak around Luke’s. “Tell her... Tell her I’m sorry.”

He was gone. Galen felt it through the Force before Vader’s hands went limp and fell to his sides. There was an absence, suddenly, a vacuum that took his breath away. Impossible to tell if it was because of the death of Darth Sidious, or Darth Vader, but Galen imagined it was both. 

None of that mattered, however. 

What mattered was Luke, sitting there on his knees, crying over the broken body of his father. And they weren’t the men that Darth Vader had made them into. But, then, Darth Vader wasn’t the man the Emperor had made him into; he was Anakin Skywalker, at the end of his life, just a lost soul in the Force. He had chosen the light, he had chosen _Luke._

And it _mattered._

“I love you,” Galen said, because he couldn’t think of anything else he could possibly say, or anything else Luke could possibly need to hear. 

Luke clung to him, crying into his chest as Galen’s arms folded around him. 

Galen held him, because he couldn’t think of anything else he could possibly say.

Or anything else Luke could possibly need.

****

Later, on Endor, as they watched the body of Darth Vader placed on the pyre, as the flames leapt and crackled against the night, Galen took Luke’s hand and squeezed his fingers. 

“The Force changes us, and we change the Force,” Luke said. “I finally understand now. It changed him, too, you know? Anakin Skywalker. But change isn’t something that ever stops. It changed him into Darth Vader, and it changed him into Anakin, at the end.”

“No,” Galen said. “He made a _choice._ He chose you, and he chose the light. And that matters.”

Maybe the Force didn’t change them. 

Maybe it exposed them. Stripped them bare and showed them who they really were. 

Galen didn’t know, what he did know was that Luke’s hand was warm in his, and his blue eyes looked even more beautiful in firelight. 

All Galen knew was that he loved him. 

And as he kissed Luke, as Luke kissed him back and slung his arms around his neck, Galen thought that was all that mattered. 

Light and dark were only words.

Luke was real, and solid, and warm.

Luke was the only force Galen needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to @archangel-gay for the commission! i had such a wonderful time with it :D and to everyone who's read, thank you so so much!

**Author's Note:**

> written for archangel-gay on tumblr! i'm never really any good with slow burn fic, but this one was a lot of fun! the more i worked on it, the more fun i had with it, actually! :3


End file.
